When everyone's a poet, you become one too

Well, I tried my hand at it too since everyone around me seems to be a writer or a poet. Here goes nothing-

Hope…so beautiful…yet so brutal…
For you know your illusions will be crushed by reality,
But it feels nice to imagine otherwise…
Anyway.

Patience is a virtue of great men…
And great men often lead difficult lives,
 with enough sorrow.

They know how hurtful patience can be-
when waging a lost battle of never-ending wait…
But they can’t help it…

They feel guilt for doing this to themselves,
But that bastard, hope, doesn’t seem to leave.

And yet…their greatest fear…happens to be 
-losing that very same hope.

Losing which, they lose their life, but continue to exist…
The three best friends of this reality. Pain. Suffering. Futility. 

If you ever come across my fellows,
With movement in their limbs, thoughts in their head, 
Yet no life in their bosoms,
Recognize them. 

Lemme know your views on it. Feedback and criticism is always welcome. 
(Also, I'm ok, I don't need inquiries on my mental health, focus on the poem objectively.)