The Perfect Storm

In whispers and sighs,
Amidst the whimsy of the days,
I fret. I fight. I flight.
The wounds might salve themselves
The scars might heal
But the melancholic riots in my head
The flustered thoughts I cuddled
Rot my existence. My living strides.
Do I live?
Should i die?
Should I just wait?
For life to happen?
Would I survive yet another storm?
Another tide?
Or should I just hide?
Knuckle under to the fear of the waver?
This is, yet, another rant of a poet.
Not a rhymes of a poem.