Sometimes
I feel
Like my words
Are just flavor text

In the darkest moments of life
You become my source of light

I feel little,
Compared to the poets whos' poems trend for days.
If they came 'hot off the press,'
They'd burn the printer's office down.
Their flow is perfect, and every poem has a clear purpose in their line up.
How can I be like them?
Traveler, Peter Garrett, Ben Noah Suresh,
All big names.
They have years of experience compared to me,
Traveler's poem trended so much it's temperature matched the year.
If I asked nicely,
Could he teach me how to make my poems great?
I learn so much from every poem on here I read,
Liana's a person, a poet, a vine.
That nobody cares about the number on the scrapbook poem,
They just care they're there.
I write because I want to show people a window into my life,
But deep down there's a part of me,
That wants to be famous more than anything.
So here I am,
Feeling little,
Feeling small.

Day just started
And I'm already high.
No need to be drugged
To be this tight.

Wherever I look
I find you
Whatever I do
Becomes about you!

Not having you
Makes me weak!
Addicted, I seek!
But I can't find you
Unless, if I dream...

I had a dream last night,
Where I was singing Christmas carols,
With Bob Ross.
He didn't know the words,
To "Silent night."

I think my heart might be made of stone,
It's durable, but often pieces of it crumble away.
It sparkles with crystals,
The remnants of happy memories.
It's cold to the touch,
After all, rock is heat resistant.
But that's not the greatest,
For I can't feel the warm fingers of love.