Crawling from a cliff.

A Poem by Werthers

Something I wrote a few weeks ago, during a terrifying period of my life, which I welcome and would love any form of feedback on.

I’m sweating. Filthy. Desperately clinging to a shred of wilted hope,
attempting to feebly dodge the seemingly endless hazards and dangers.
I’m over a silent cliff at the time of writing, though not completely
silent. Tilting my dirtied head weakly down the side of my hopeless
abode, I have noticed what I have assumed to be aged, sharp rock
formations as the sea creeps between each crevice, mocking and
tempting me every moment.

I simply can’t recall how I managed to arrive in such a situation,
though it isn’t an issue. What needs to be focused on, what I expend
my limited energy and motivation on is to keep my pathetic grasp on to
the hope. The very idea of hope now appears to be fabricated. An
innocent façade. A twisted, delusional mortal coil created to keep the
unwilling tethered and bound to the earth. They’ve built the very
tunnel you believe a light is at the end of, when such a light never
existed to begin with.

I’m following the map and guidelines that exist in this situation, yet
I always seem to lose myself in an endless forest and misplace the
instructions. I’m chilled much further than bone, all the while the
fire contained in my skull burns brighter than a star. I try to catch
a fleeing thought, desperately attempting to seek refuge from the
inferno, though none seem too interested to share anything
specifically. And I can empathize with them, of course. I know what it
feels like to feel the flames through my organs and veins, being
engulfed with no method to communicate, as they paralyze and
incinerate my tongue, eyes and fingers.

Nothing in our fantastical reality is permanent, however. Eventually,
the fire quells beneath the surface, thus completing the cycle. I
salvage the charred remains of my tortured thoughts and begin anew.
Such a practice I know well. Sprawled on a small, filth filmed
mattress to beg for the sheet dividing what some refer to as sanity
and insanity to be sliced in the center, allowing both the freedom to
roam and indulge in every recess and hidden corner of my cranium.