The Storm - A Collection of Original Poems

Myself, My Self

In a city with thousands of people, I still feel alone.
Days pass by, people pass by, and I feel like a hollow face in a lonely crowd.
I can't find a place that feels like home.
I drift through places full of life but absent of substance.
In a life of uncertainty, I cannot escape a fear of the unknown.
While I search, hoping to find my self, I wander further away from being found.
Spring creeps in but the days still feel cold and blind, a blanket of snow.
I miss someone who no longer wants me, and who never needed me.
Every day I try to move forward, but I cannot find a place to go.
Time marches ever onward, and I feel myself being left behind.

The distance between my presence and my person seems to grow deeper by the minute.
Depression is a faceless assassin, the voice of Satan cruel but sweet in the back of my mind.
It seems as if the best days are followed by the darkest nights.
My triumphs overshadowed by my failures, again and again.

I thought I had won this battle, 
I wanted to believe I was whole again. 
I couldn't escape that my soul is fractal,
Can't accept that this illness is my friend.
I had seen miracles, witnessed impossible things!
I had met heroes, flew on unstoppable wings!
I saw first hand the power of new life, a glory at which choruses of angels could sing.

And yet I still wanted the end of mine.
At the edge with no tears left to cry. 
Hating myself for having no energy to fight.
Craving familiar darkness in the brilliant clarity of the light.
Closing my eyes tightly to avoid the clarity of sight. 
What would I see if I opened my eyes?

Who could I be if I embrace my flaws?
Who could I be if I acknowledge my weaknesses?
Who could I be if I dedicated myself to improving my self?
If I beat my addictions, fixed my shitty sleep schedule, worked on my social life, dedicated myself to my studies and my job, taking care of myself?
Who could I be if I didn't limit myself?
Who could I be if I could ever live up to my potential? 

The problem is that I know, no matter how hard I try, I can't reach that picturesque, flawless version of myself that I fantasize about being. 
I truly believe that it is too late for me, despite constantly reminding others that it's never too late.
The whispers tell me to give up, that if it can't be perfect, it's not worth trying. 
Why settle for being good, when you could have been great?
This is the battle that continues, subtle at times but occasionally brutal, in the back of my mind.
My self being disappointed by myself, myself believing in my self.
It doesn't make much sense to me either.

And the Storm rages once more.