Interrogation - poem

What if I'm standing at the edge of the world
would anyone really care, or go about life saying
"there she goes again"

There I go, saying "what if," my trusty catch-phrase of temporary amnesia
of the faith I claim to carry close to my
murmuring heart

Who wants to read, consume, reorganize these words into some
sense
of what they think it means to them?

Does it matter what it means to me? Does this typing, thinking, feeling, seething mass of grey matter-driven flesh mean something profound,
or is this simply posturing in the pseudo-poetic universe?

What if this is all I have left

Does grey turn to nothing when drained of purpose?

If not one more drop of creativity trickles onto the pages of my e-canvas, then
what point remains in neurons zapping each other anymore?
If my words are silenced, when attempting to describe the wounds inflicted on my
psyche and soul,
what point remains in speaking?

When would it be noted that I no longer say anything of value,
or worse,

when no words come at all?

How will someone know when my thoughts simply sublimate instead of pouring out of these tired lips, and

why not even sparks light the way throughout my brain?

What if I'm standing with the world in my fingertips, ready to drop it, along with the purposeful words tomorrow could bring?

There I go again.