backstabbed

The Gorge

 

What makes us cry? What makes us feel so insecure that we throw ourselves from the worn down path that we trudge in our quest to keep sane and allow ourselves to be thrown into the cavernous hole of hell that is so dark and without meaning that our minds simply shrivel to a structure of most insignificance? It simply can be blamed on the coarse and hostile words that are thrown down like thunderclaps by those that stand on the isolated cliffs above: To which we seek the most of solace from. But to say that the individuals are to be solely blamed is to ignore the high cliffs of comfort that the blamer grants those that fire these heinous slandering's, that grant them immunity from their own words.

 

We walk a path between oblivion of the mind and the souls destruction, void of a sense of right or wrong to which our pride consumes like a cancer. For many, this road is filled with sharp stones made from our past grief's and the far too ominous memories which seek to hinder us in our pursuit of the happiness that we are often told is but to be had at the posting of a picture or the following of an icon. These jaggered rocks prick into your skin and bled you of all positive blood that your weak veins pitifully pulse in an effort to delude you into thinking it all is but a headache of a former life.

 

To your left, the words bounce back and forth, playing squash against your skull; causing you to topple backwards, your hands splintering at the pressure that the memories of your downfall and the black abyss is to your right: Its so very tempting to take as a purple black bile oozes from the rocks and takes you to a small peaceful area, an eye in the storm. The shouts and calls become distant as the whisperings take hold of your bleeding ears that no longer want the harsh hardship of the torment that the path presents. You listen to them a'e the screaming of the privileged tell you that your life, so frivolous and lacking in the proper worth to be worthy of happiness, just needs to end. The whisperings argue that life only begins when you cast aside the microbes of possessions and into that unknown that the chasm offers.

 

On the path, the shouting and screaming stops. The chasm ends its mutterings and leaves you on the floor, your humanity spilling out on the rocks as your eyes and will grow weak. You have two options.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Second poem, hope its alright to read as I know it was good to write it!

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