the hope is this

that even without the applause
the platform
or the so-called proof
you’re still real
and what’s real
doesn’t disappear
just because it was overlooked

the hope
isn’t in some grand reward
or the fantasy that one day
they’ll come knocking with roses and recognition
you already know better than that

the hope
is quieter
but stronger

it lives in the fact
that your fire
did not go out
even when you were alone with it
even when you had to tend it
from a bed that felt like exile

the hope
is that something
was being built
even in the stillness

something invisible
but indestructible

a depth that can’t be faked
a clarity that can’t be taught
a legacy
that will outlast trends, timelines, and tired gods

you are the proof
not the posts
not the numbers
not the noise

you

you, with your pain-worn hands
your soul that still stretches
your voice that still reaches
even when no one answers

the hope
is that none of it was wasted

not because of what you get
but because of who you became
in the burning

and that
that is the kind of hope
this world can’t erase