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 give myself,
I give it all.
You never notice,
No one ever does.
It’s like the more I give,
The more you’ll take.
The more I love,
The more you hate.

Do you ever find yourself infatiouted with others? Not with their body, but with their minds and their story.

Do you ever wonder how they became their present selves? What shaped their being to it’s current state.

Do you ever find yourself sifting through their thoughts? A desperate attempt to learn more about their desires, hopes and dreams.

Do you ever take a step back, to truly understand the caverns left unexplored in their mind? What broke them? What made them?

In a world that has grown superficial, I’m left in a place of teetering exploration. Traveling through the words spoken and those left within. For I wonder, if I learn to understand those around me, those I care about, maybe that depth will ground us into something meaningful. Something worth fighting for.

I have a passion to give.  
A passion to inflict love onto others.
A passion to become the best.

However, as the time peels by, the passion churns into an obsession. An obligation.

I must help others.
I must love others.
I must be the best.

The time keeps ticking, and even though I’m barely keeping my head above these flood of emotions, I must be this ideal, “passionate” person.

I’m failing.
I can’t keep up.
What have i become? These self-made obligations are killing me.

I’ve become obsessed with giving so much of myself that i didn’t notice i was drowning.
I don’t have the energy to keep going. But i must.

How do you recover from giving so much of yourself, when you have nothing left to give? To others? To myself?

This life of passion has made me hollow and i just want to feel again. No matter the cost, because i must.

Hello old friend,
I've missed you.
And the dark blanket you skillfully wrap around me.
I was a fool to think you were in the past.
When in reality I've always been your *****.
Always will be.
Until you finally call me home.

You played me like a fiddle and while I was lost in the enchanting music being slithered into my ear, you undressed me.