I'm a mineral who thinks it's a miner
even if I can't tell coal from gold
I offer my excavated treasures to the public
only to be told they're rocks
by obsidian hearted pebbles
so I quietly return to my quarry
and get on DraftKings Sportsbook
who pays me for saying the Nuggets will win
pulling validation from the gravelly depths
and showing promising riches to be unearthed
appealing to my **** and wallet
to subvert my brain
but I can't just switch off and call it
considering what could be attained
digging deeper and deeper down
people call down from the ground
but they never cared when I was around
and I'd rather get gems for the **** in my mind
than get **** for the gems in my mind
so I continue my decline
until rock bottom is mined.

When left alone at night
I look for the pinpoint lights
of the stars that appear
when clouds aren’t there.

There’s a waning gibbous moon
shyly peaking from the shadows,
with one of its symmetrical sides,
what’s the moon got to hide?

whispering privately
I’ve heard the moon has a darkside,
that it’s coin-like and openly two-faced.
That’s no idle gossip, it's scientifically based.

India just landed on the moons bottom
I wonder what, exactly, that got ‘em.
It’s funny because the moon is ****,
making the landing sound rather rude.

“India is groping the **** moon’s bottom.”
See what I mean? It all sounds rather pervish
and obscene - not at all the usual routine -
it has the ring of something politically incorrect,
but that’s progress, I guess, undressed or dressed.

Maybe just maybe
that a split-second mo
is far no more.

Finally, the moon into the sea
takes the jump for sure
only to see abyss water is no more.

Capturing the moments of stories
woven in billows and waves
all a jiffy in a split second is gone
but a drop of tear at the bottom.

Wish I have that
raised brow.
Let alone eying
the moon on the highs
but up to your eyes.

Neither do you
let me down.
You touch down the abyss
seal the bottom of the sea
before my teardrop falls down!

the room is suffocating, I am spiraling
I thought this was my season but I am unwell
there's so much I want but so little I have
I feel like I am stuck at the bottom of a well
can see the light and life above but I remain in my broken shell
I want to feel even a little bit more secure
I want to smile and sing with the birds
my foundation is shaky, my will is breaking
waiting for someone to save me
I tried to save myself with no help
I tried to love myself to no help
I tried to do it alone with no help
I tried to run from it all with no help
I just really want to be held
I just really want to be felt
make the most of these cards I was dealt

What is poetry?
A form of self expression?
A release to the emotions bearing weight on your soul?
A chance at hope in the most dire of times?

I find myself asking these questions as I stray towards words during my visits to rock bottom. When life has once again wronged me, and these emotions are brewing into an unforgiving storm. There are no expectations here. There is no room for outside judgment. It is just me, a pen, and an empty sheet of paper.

So why is it, that through the thunder of this storm, as the rain pelts me to my core, I find myself met with expectations of my own self expression? Trying to mold these feelings into something presentable, acceptable, beautiful, even.

These emotions know no boundary, they feel no sympathy toward the rules of the world, they only crave release from being locked inside for far too long. They are messy, angry, chaotic, uncomfortable. There is no perfect format to present them in. There is no time to mend them into something pleasing. There is only expression.