Blood sweat and tears, minutes or years
Build it with metal build it of wood
No matter the cost it has to be good

Make it complex, allow it to flex
Build it to last build with desire
It would still burn after a fire

Emotions run true, storms roll through
Build unintentional build with no ridges
Fallen trees are still the best bridges

To give up on a dream is thought to be cowardly
But is it not courageous to dismiss one's hopes in order to dream of something new
Is it not bolder to go where no one has been
Is it not more glorious to achieve that which would otherwise remain  unaccomplished
Are not dreams nothing more than opportunity
With new decisions facing us every moment
As simple as a choice or as complicated as conviction
Then would it not be remarkable to go against one's beliefs in order to reach the greatness waiting to be conceived
In a world forever changing, forever adapting
With days eternally numbered and opportunities nearly infinite
it would be easier to stick to the familiar
But life is like a simple child's game
If you have nothing to challenge you
What you are, what you're made of, and what you believe
Then it would be lacking of fun with no sense of victory
To choose the difficult path is to choose to live
To live a life of fulfillment, a life of glory
If your dreams ever seem too easy or too simple
Then I implore you, dream again

I sat, late this morning in hopes to diagnose
Perusing precious prose by the babbling brook
A fairy of the forest flew by unbeknownst
As radiant a rose, simple and sly

She stopped down stream while I continued contemplation
For a fleeting flash I felt peace hiding in her heart
As she dipped fingertips into the stream’s serene salvation
The world finally felt whole, like it never fell apart

Said the little boy, "Sometimes I drop my spoon."
Said the old man, "I do that too."
The little boy whispered, "I wet my pants."
"I do that too," laughed the little old man.
Said the little boy, "I often cry."
The old man nodded, "So do I."
"But worst of all," said the boy, "it seems
Grown-ups don't pay attention to me."
And he felt the warmth of a wrinkled old hand.
"I know what you mean," said the little old man.

I opened my eyes
And looked up at the rain,
And it dripped in my head
And flowed into my brain,
And all that I hear as I lie in my bed
Is the slishity-slosh of the rain in my head.

I step very softly,
I walk very slow,
I can't do a handstand--
I might overflow,
So pardon the wild crazy thing I just said--
I'm just not the same since there's rain in my head.

Out of the mid-wood’s twilight
Into the meadow’s dawn,
Ivory limbed and brown-eyed,
Flashes my Faun!

He skips through the copses singing,
And his shadow dances along,
And I know not which I should follow,
Shadow or song!

O Hunter, snare me his shadow!
O Nightingale, catch me his strain!
Else moonstruck with music and madness
I track him in vain!

For if I told you that I love you
Anywhere but my poetry
It would give you the power
To walk away.
So for now I will write
'Til the pen falls from my hand.
Never not loving you
And never not denying it.

- p. winter