My own storm.
I'm sat at the cliff,
Black clouds hold threat over me;
Fog that smothers my vision;
Obscures my perceptions.
Deafened by the dark waves,
Crushing and punishing the soft clay.
My desperate screams mimicked and echoed;
By winds that wrap me up,
Trap me in this silent storm,
I'll squint through the shadows,
Search for the sun they all bathe in.
But my fingernails fill of dirt,
As I cling to this cliff; my comfort?
But when will I sit here and not crave the fall?
The surrender to this peronal storm;
To lose myself within the folds of the troubled tides;
To drown in water instead of my merciless memories.