I set aside
The things which I strode
Towards when my legs had
Strength for long treks
For attempts at those things
They said I was incapable of.
I was capable.
I wasn't capable of returning
To myself, not soon enough
To avoid losing all my gains
For want of being called
"Unselfish."

And my potentials withered
As so many yellowed flowers.

Beware of those which tell you
That all you wish to do
Pales in comparison
To that which they've left
To haunt your halls
To tell you you're unworthy.

I know it is hopeless
But--
There is nothing, in
My life, to hope for if
We aren't allowed to hope for
Hopeless things.

The prosaics are even
Laid out
Impossibly distant and
Unreachable from here
A good home of family my own
To raise as I will.

The plans I have made
To build
Up ambition of my own have
Crumbled to dust so that my aims
Are restricted to what I can pull to me from
My partnered half.

Hopelessness is endemic
To what
Is available to aim for.