Hope....

Hope is a lasso.
My tool that keeps me from accelerating into a chasm of hate
I try not to lasso what cant be caught,
Or grab hold of something that will hurt me.
But I am not a skilled cowgirl.
I am riding a bucking bronco and my aim is poor.
All my catches have left me weary.

I lasso shiny razors of success that cut my chords
Or wolverine romances who gnash their teeth at me
I lasso rainbows of self esteem,
that are never where they seem to be.
I aim for needy children, and broken communities,
who consume my energy once I catch them.

I have caught insatiable apetites
Empty wins, fad diets that proved intolorable company
The kinds of peace that demand too much compromise.
Approval that slowly imprisons me.
Sometimes I have lassoed myself, trying to contain my wildness.
But in doing that i tied up hope.
I do not like roping and reining, but giving up brings despair.

There is a Cowboy who tries to lasso me
He would catch me if I let him.
He would let me catch him if I aimed
He would let me on his horse.
We could lasso affection, exhuberance, serenity.
If I caught him, or allowed myself to be caught
I risk only loss of control.
But I grip the reins too tight.