I stand on the edge of a cliff, looking down. There is naught before me, no sight and no sound. I'm afraid to fall down, but more so to retreat; Before me is death, but behind lies defeat. I take a look at the people around. They see not the cliff, and wear not a frown. I think to myself - But how can this be? How come this ledge is seen only by me? Nobody sees me as they pass me by. Or maybe they do, but to them I'm a fly, Which can be ignored, or at worst flicked away, To deal with its own troubles, woes and dismay. No look of concern ever crosses their face. They couldn't be bothered to halt their life race. It matters not if someone else is effaced, For it happens outside of their personal space. My heart beats so loud; it yearns for my fall. It's sick of this world, just sick of it all! It broils and it spasms, with fury untamed, To wreak wanton havoc is its current aim. "But it's not their fault!" my logic retains, "They're not to blame for my personal pains." It's right in a way, but I will not listen. Most of them won't event know if I'm missing! I think of my past; all the things I have seen. The emotions I've had, the colors I'd been. What's the point of it all? Why even bother? It won't make a difference, one way or another. But I grow weary now; my heart becomes bleak. It's raged all its wrath and is now growing weak. It flickers and shrinks, and makes itself wee. For me, in this life, there is no lasting glee.