Sitting at the edge of a cliff
feet dangling in the empty air
seconds away from falling
from jumping
from slipping
aren't we all just seconds away from disappearing
all it takes is one second
one gunshot
one car
one slip
and we could be gone
life is so delicate
all the people fighting screaming yelling
over nothing
because one day none of this will matter
the only thing that matters is that we lived and loved
and right now I feel like I should jump
but I won't
I can't
because
I have a mother and a father who love me very much and I simply can't break their hearts
so the days when I feel like giving up
when I feel like breaking
when I feel like puking and cutting and drowning
I need to remember that one day it will all be worth it
there is going to be a tomorrow
I sometimes forget that there is a tomorrow
find the last sliver of happiness in your soul
walk away from the edge
sometimes the best thing to do is absolutely nothing
I am learning that life is not about dying
we aren't born to die, we are born to try.
don't jump.

would

in the screaming breeze,
a whistles sound forms,
in the winds,
the hibernated scorn of hidden violins,
strung together the suspense.
In the aftermath of silenced stare;

the glare from colours crystalline,
the subtle manipulation of light beams,
in nice dreams,
across the shallow lake,
whilst opaque clouds fade, pale.
In the sound of the backgrounds snarl;

in the woods darkness, black,
the music chooses ehoes between branches,
dangling in tone in the malarkey of
the pain of the mandolins gaze;

each pieces together with tiny,
frost bitten childs sized fingers.
The icy touch lingers for the seconds of death,
that last a pastime,
a lifetime of lust,
in the blink of the dust in the wind.

She walks away with flare
Leaving the scent of jasmine in the air
And I sink in the remnants
Of her vocal impressions
As I drop back into the arms of silence
Heavy with recollection
As real as the floor I lay against
Seeing her figure disappear
Into the darkness of a hallway
Too many times
Over and over again
I reach out a hand to call her back
But only the disturbance of air
Replies back in sad despair
Her presence is now only a remembrance
Of molecules scattered
Touching the receptors in my brain
Touching battered tatters
Forming abstract images of infatuation
Where her face melts and withers
Into the vague imprint of frustration
Losing its individuality to sillage