The leaves fall one by one
of past regrets that I atone
as the seasons go by.

This fall's witnessed many falls
and none but you have made me sprawl
into the pile of this blithe bliss.

Thy essence enchants this rusty soul,
to live a gay life, lest I turn a ghoul.
Yet my hands tremble as I stand;

waiting for you to come in.

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.

I wish my sad was cool
I wish my sad was a day drinker
Glitter covered
Beautiful, dried tears crumbling off her cheek
Misty skinned at some glorious dark hour of the morning.

I wish my sad was heartbreaking
Others staring into a globe of poorly hidden injuries
Looking over my bare shoulders to see the balding on my nape.

Instead my sad is a creaking house at night
An unseen **** growing under the boardwalk

I turn my sadness over in my mind
Like I fold my clean washing

I hope one day my sad means more to me.

The strums of his guitar
fall onto his lap

Trickle down my lobes
a steady dripping tap