Depressed Poems or whatever it might be

6

I'm walking a thin line.
A thin line of fright.
All because I'm scared to lose, I'm scared to win, I'm scared to gain, I'm scared to fight.

I'm weighing endless odds against infinite possibilities to figure out countless outcomes. Only to get a result I feel is right. But it's never what I want.

I'm holding on to something I love.
But to hold on is such a struggle.
Everything is constantly moving on to where I have yet to adjust.
And every day the effort it takes to hold my grip is doubled.

And despite the raise in energy, everything I do is in vain. They've made up their mind, which leaves me to figure out myself as I'm slowly washing away.
Washing away all my thoughts, all my times, all my lows, all my highs.
All is following me. A path to be cleansed of everything once experienced.
But it has to start somewhere. It is all following me down the nearest gutter into an ocean of similarity. A hypothermic death is all that awaits.

All because the warmth has long seeped away through the windows. And there is no cure but to wait. Wait to be visited and that they bring sparkles to further light up my way. Hope they bring a fire to warm me.

But it wouldn't matter. Even the fire from the sun couldn't set me alight. Everything left in me has long turned to ash. And ash doesn't burn.