By Brennan Berryhill

‘Hope’ is the thing with claws
That scratches hold the soul
No matter how I shake the branch
I cannot make it go 

The little bird was nice at first
It kept me warm and dry
But cold hard truth’s a nasty thing
And still the bird won’t fly

I hate the looks to periphery
I hate the lingering faith
But the worst part of this clinging hope
Is that I wish it stay 

Brennan Berryhill is a junior studying English.