Stupidly Hopeful

I think about my hopes.
Expectations are low.
Lower than my systolic,
Life’s tough on me, bro!

I say that as I smirk.
Bad poetry pairs with luck.
It’s been very long since
I’ve felt somewhat unstuck.

Just hours roll into days,
Then those into weeks to years.
Fifty-one, yes, I am over the hill.
Scars I carry; no one really cares.

But I can’t sleep. I wake up
Every few minutes with a worry.
Depression and anxiety, my pals,
Neither good-looking nor furry.

But I still hope; that’s my constant.
I am a stupidly hopeful guy.
That before I die I will have
Some reason to happily die.