Clouds’ Crests

A Poem by Margaret

A poem about what it’s like to struggle with mental health

Some days I can soar to the crests of clouds
and pull myself up, gripping their cotton lumps There, I believe I can score A’s on tests,
go to parties, eat a vegan diet,
paint masterpieces and write a novel.
But then the clouds push me off their cotton lumps.
My body slams against Earth’s surface.
Dirt, grass, and rocks scatter into the wind.
I lay in my crater of failing grades,
sleepless nights, and withdrawal from the world. Rocks become impressed into my back and
the worms squirm beneath my arms and legs. These discomforts grow familiar as the
sun and moon take turns illuminating
the crests of the clouds. The clouds whose cotton is still embedded in my fingernails,
reminding me of who I want to be.
The wet earth dries into a light brown
chalky earth that is easier to climb.
Gripping a hard lump of earth, I pull myself up. The clouds downpour rain over my crater.
My hands slip on the mud that sludges downwards, trying to drag me down with it. I grab on to the softening lumps
until I can feel the edge of my crater.

I grasp the edge and pull myself up.
The grass streaks my clothes in a vibrant green. Standing on the grass, I look down at my hands. They are coated in fresh mud, my fingernails receiving the brunt of the ordeal.
Embedded in my fingernails is the
coarse dirt, reminding me of who I am.