1/31/25   10:22pm

first comes hope
then the early mornings
lying awake
wondering wondering wondering

soon after are the regrets
I shouldn't have said that
maybe if I smiled more
or asked more questions
one less drink would have been good

and what comes last
radio static
a lesson
some memories to hold onto
and a stranger

10-2-24   4:21pm

do you think about me
as much as I think about you

do you wonder about
those unanswered questions
or what could have been


do you think about
the night we met
and how we were talking about
the universe
or that time during dinner
you told me the wind
blew through my hair
at the perfect moment


where did I go wrong
or were you scared
did I say something wrong
did I do something wrong
I just want to know

I wish it didn't have to end like that

we weren't right for each other

I have to remind myself that
but I'm still sad
am I allowed to be?


I'll never see him again

These cold days,
Poetry is all I've got.
Where snow falls solemnly from looming clouds,
The only thing I surround myself with are words.
I miss the spring city,
Nothing could penetrate my armor of love.
For now that December has made it's descent, I am left in winter song,
Alas, for poetry, who's warm heart could melt the ice of sorrow.
Where will the fae dance tonight?
For reading poetry it makes my heart soar, and it makes my heart sore.
Snowflakes lace the winter grave of Autumn leaves,
And poetry, a silent goddess in the wind, has captured my tongue.
Where is the sun? In this winter's song,
For poems are the light in my dark.
Cold, the fingers that hold my pen,
Verse warms my soul.
Where am I? In this winter's song.

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.

I wonder occasionally,
If I write too many of these.
But I remind myself that,
While other people love them.
I'm really writing these for me.

My dog can't see,
He goes under the table and paws at me.
Asking me to pet him, which I do.
But how does he know,
What hand is petting him if he can't see?

Slipping soundlessly into sound,
Is the dancer,
Moving in motion so proud.
I regret the times I didn’t see,
The true amazement she could be.
Instead I saw her uncut form,
Raw emotions,
Which I responded to with stabbing thorns.
It wasn't enough that I returned to you,
Bearing a bouquet of apologies.
Because I loved to hold you,
You loved to be held by me,
I needed attention, I thrived on greed.
Now I hold nothing,
Because you left me.
Slipping soundlessly away,
Leaving forever,
Now I remember you as a fading tune.
God I love that song,
Oh, God, I loved you.
Why do I portray your voice,
As a flute,
Silver, portraying tunes.
Nothing more,
We weren't meant to be.
But sometimes I wonder, how do you portray me?

Sometimes I like to watch people and try to see
Who is happy
Who is free
Who wails at night
And each morning basks in sunlight
Who has a home with a little garden
And who is still trying to make a bargain
Who could find light amidst sorrows dark
Who is healing a broken heart
And I always wonder who could be
As lonely as me