Hey, sorry for not updating. I was sick and stuff. 

I decided I would write a poem in this story that is metaphorical but makes no sense. 

YouTuber AU

TW: Hate comments, pressuring, some obscure poem I made on the spot that I wish I didn't write if it wasn't sort of relevant to the plot.

Roman strummed his guitar, looking for some inspiration for a new song. His phone bussed for the fiftieth time that thirty minutes. He sighed and set down his guitar. He reached for his phone and saw the ridiculous amount of comments asking him what he was going to do next because he was taking so long. He replied to all of them, telling them he was working on a song.

Trying to at least.

He pretended to ignore the comments calling him lazy and accusing him of autotune. Roman clutched the phone a little harder, before relaxing his grip and putting it down. He returned to his strumming, forming a bit of a direction on where he was going.

He knew he couldn't express his feeling through songs.

He would be called cliche.

And he didn't want to be a cliche.

He took a small break, listening to Crofter Lover's raps.

He couldn't hide the twinge of jealousy he felt in his chest. Everything seemed more talented than him, and he hated that.

He jotted down a line, then another, until he was left with a poem. He rewrote it a few times until it seemed better than before.

'I have a garden of hopes and dreams,

Flowers are my dreams and the butterflies are my hope.

Sometimes the wisps come around and their entrance is from kind of upward slope,

when they come, they help to water the flowers with me and placing them in the sunbeams.

Recently, some of them have forgot to help me,

They chase around my butterflies, I keep wondering why,

Because everytime they catch one, the butterfly loses it's ability to fly.

It's as if keeping a garden is a crime worthy of a fee

Another day goes by,

My garden seems smaller than before,

Am I imagining it? But the wisps seem to appear more,

Every single wisp takes away another butterfly's ability to fly high.

Maybe could I tend to the garden myself for a little while?

I don't mind you watching and helping occasionally with a flower or two,

But don't chase my butterflies and don't uproot my flowers, I beg of you,

and later I'll let you help some more with a brighter laugh and smile'

He brightened up slightly, and started making a sort of rap out of it, although admittedly it was difficult to try rap it.

He knew it wasn't the best but it wouldn't hurt to try.

Not as angsty as it should be, sorry, but I tried with the poem and I sort of tried to rap it aloud. 

ily!