Hey Jude. Don’t make it sad.
If hope is a muscle, let it twitch.
If peace is real, let it sit.
I’ll take small mercies that don’t announce themselves—
I’ll take a night that doesn’t argue.
I’ve been living off the change that falls between bad days,
finding grace in borrowed light, bent nails, small mechanics.
When nothing worked,
something still answered the door,
not with thunder or instruction,
just a reason to stay a little more.
You didn’t promise exits or a cleaner sky,
you showed up as friction, a stubborn why.
Every time the math said quit, the ground said stand—
I don’t know who to thank,
so I thank the hand.
I’ve learned how hope hides in unmarked rooms,
in the space between panic and making it through.
I’ve learned how mercy doesn’t look polite—
it looks like surviving another night.
If you’re listening without wanting credit,
if you trade in lost causes and never admit it,
then you already know why I’m still here:
gratitude sharp as it is sincere.
And now the road’s getting narrow again,
the same weight, the same bad weather settling in.
I’m not asking for a miracle, just accuracy—
aim what I have at what’s left of me.
If you deal in the almost-gone, the written-off,
the ones still moving after the stop-loss dropped,
I’m standing right where the margin lives,
with what I’ve got to give.
So if there’s a favor left unspent,
let it land where the damage went.
Not louder days or someone else’s glow—
just steady hands and a little more time.
I don’t need saving, I need staying power.
I don’t need heaven, I need this hour.
If someone’s been walking with me unseen,
walk with me now, keep me .. me .
Cancer spreads—that’s the truth I carry.
Heal my soul—that’s the work I choose.
Saint Jude, patron of hopeless cases,
of things despaired of.
I remember you.
If there’s a god above of the fates below,
some divine power that I’ll never know,
till the time has come and I just let go—