Hopelessness Poems Novels & Stories

It's a hard truth to face, but in this moment, it feels like the only one that matters. The weight of my past mistakes and failures presses down on me, suffocating any glimmer of hope or self-belief. It's as if every wrong turn, every missed opportunity, and every heartbreak has led me to this moment of utter despair. I question my worthiness, my purpose, and whether I will ever find someone who truly sees me for who I am.

RIVER BROWN Hope is a dangerous thing. Because once that hope is taken away, all you have left is this tremendous pain that keels you over and stabs you again and again till you can’t breathe. I toss the sheets still clinging to my body away; I swallow through the pain that rips me apart from the back until my feet are standing cooly on the floorboards. Then? I try again to regain the hope that I think isn’t lost. I open my mouth; I move my tongue but nothing happens.

She once heard a saying, "Hope is a slow poison. It's not just destined to kill you, it would torture your soul in installments, make you hallucinate that everything is going to be all right, and finally leaves you at the dead end." Arianna prayed she didn't end up that way; she hoped that the wedding would be stopped somehow and Elijah sweeps her away to their safe haven where they establish their family. Now, that sure sounds like a poison invading her mind. Burying her face into the mattress, Arianna groaned. What was she going to do then?! Her situation was so frustrating, and she just kept moving back and forth between troubles. She needed a break for Christ's sake. She needed to sort o

Like too big shoes that will never fit your feet and forever only give you blisters. Since he had gotten rid of hope, he had been sitting hopelessly drunk at some counter until his days would blur, and everything in them would seem even duller than before. He wore desperation like a comfortable coat and snuggled into it, he'd feel relieved, because without hope you cannot get disappointed and won’t ever disappoint anyone else.

“Why? What made you so interested in exploring misery and hopelessness?” Her eyes meet mine, and for a moment, something raw and vulnerable flashes through them. “Because misery is giving everything you have to someone too cold to feel it. It’s loving a creature carved from stone, hoping the warmth of your hands might thaw the empty spaces, knowing it never will. It’s bleeding yourself dry for something that will never come alive, hoping for a pulse that was never there.” She doesn’t flinch, and her steady gaze bores into me. “Don’t we all love misery?”

It would never work between Grant and me, as I already knew it. I had to stop humouring myself. We all knew how things always end up for me. Hope was like a poisonous goo and once again the damn green thing just broke me further. No more hope, no more silly poems or fantasy of love for me — those things would only hammer the nail in my coffin, but I didn’t want to die again. I refused to.

Fiona’s POV Beg for mercy? Not a fucking chance in hell. I’ve begged for mercy so many times all my life that the words have lost their meaning. My life was like an endless abyss, a pit I can never crawl out of, no matter how much I claw at the sides. No matter how much I begged for it to be over. Hopeless. That’s the word, isn’t it? That’s what this is. This existence. It was something I’d never wish an enemy. The utter feeling of hopelessness and despair. The constant alertness that came with it all was truly disheartening.

For now, at least, my only concern was finding solace in the quiet comfort of home, away from the tumultuous whirlwind of emotions that threatened to engulf me whole. As I trudge through the familiar streets, the weight of my own existence pressing down upon me like a leaden shroud, I can't help but feel consumed by a sense of utter hopelessness. Everywhere I turn, I am confronted by the stark reality of my own inadequacy, the relentless march of time stripping away any semblance of purpose or meaning from my life. I hate myself for being born, for burdening my mother with the weight of my existence. She deserves better than the constant turmoil I bring into her life, the endless cycle of pa

SHERNEIL. Hope is one of those feeble, funny feelings. One that either mends you on the inside, or fully shatters you. It curls around you in your desperate times, making you believe things will turn out well, only for those things to come crashing back. Fully breaking you. Or making you whole. It was stupid of me to have let such an emotion filter through my mind, making me wish to do everything that was impossible. So, after a while, I fell back to my familiar routine.

Her skin was marred with needle scars. The caption read: [Blood may be thicker than water, but it’s not stronger than some people’s ruthlessness. I don’t want to be an older sister again in my next life.] Tears fell from my eyes. They streamed down my face and mixed with my snot. ‘I’m sorry, Rachelle. Let me be the older sister in our next lives,’ I thought. By the third day in the underground room, I had lost track of whether it was day or night.