I used to write a lot of poems online.
They'd trend, attract followers, etc.
I thought I'd publish a book one day,
People seemed to like reading my stuff.
But, eventually, as most fame does,
my 15 minutes wore off.
I started getting less likes,
Less comments,
Less recognition for my work.
And I guess it made sense
Because I wasn't writing as much
Or spending as much time editing.
So I read through my old poems
To see if I just got worse
Or if there was some underlying reason
For my loss of popularity.
And soon, I began to realize
The only poems I wrote
Were ones of heartbreaks and sadnesses;
Poems of woes and loneliness.
So I wondered to myself
"What changed?"
And saw that I wasn't writing as much
Because I wasn't as sad as I was
When my peotry flowed more smoothly.
I didn't need writing as an outlet
To cope with my pain.
It's not that my life got much better,
(It didn't at all)
But I was learning to continuously find things
To be happy about;
And less to write my
Depressing monologues about.
I had begun to move on with my life
And teach myself that bad days are unavoidable,
It's how we react to them
That determines how we feel.
I used to write a lot of poetry.
But now,
I live it.

- p. winter

There goes that wishful swinging
The one so called, a dogs craving.
Her eyes are more than just a look
It tells a story of everything that she took.

The tables squeak their feet
As I wait in the pit
Admiring her hall of fame.
cadavers of lions, that she tamed.

The whip goes back and forth
And the wishful swinging finally subsides
Grinding my teeth with full on remorse
Because it's the rat that hangs by her side.

That awful creature burning her ears
Making stories out of fear
Down her eyes roll the tears
Of the memories in a smear

Careful words placed in her mouth
By the rat's name to his house
With a grain of pleasure he tried to escape
But she was too fast, and she ate

She is the alpha female afterall
Coming in with her legs wide open
Mentioning the lion on call
enjoying life for a moment

She's got the hourglass.
This much is true.
And for a grain of sand
Many lions came through

She's got the hourglass,
but, Money can't buy her time.
It's the pleasure of her class
That became a punishable crime.
To trade in a grain of pleasure
For the wishful swinging's leisure.



......A grain of sand for a bite off my hand.



Not worth it.