i write my poetry knowing i will never get the fame
i write my poetry knowing it only ignites the flame
in my mind the one that feeds to my demons late at night
but the truth is that i converse with those who know i’ll never be in a book and my name will never be known
but hey maybe i can help you feel less alone
i never know what to name my title. i also never feel like my poems do anything. they don’t reach out and let others feel or confront. i feel my words are just here, existing merely to me. but nonetheless, maybe one day i could be known for more. someone remind me this before i’m dead.
if i write to help myself,
how come i don’t like it when i read it?
i invest my time into writing better,
yet my words only seem to get worse.
and when i read them out loud,
they leave a chalky taste in my mouth, instead of the release of pain i get when i write it.
i wish i had written different words instead of these right now.
i wish i made a difference in someone’s life.
i’m all alone, never seen.
these words don’t mean anything to anyone, but me.
i allow myself to be vulnerable but i wish someone would just admit they are tired of my whining.
and when he smiles
i swear i could fly
everywhere we go it’s numbers that control us
the number in our bank account
the number on our test
the number on our scale
everywhere we go we let that number decide for us
the number of likes
our number of friends
why should a number decided if we’re happy?
friends can break your heart too
i thought i was empty
but instead i am filled with pain