A shade of clear caresses red
dabbed upon each aching edge
a sweetened birch lies ever near
await mere embers to appear
In holy rest her amber hue
a roseate glow paints such a view
gentle strokes do pass and glide
pure color beats and breathes inside
With light and shade a vision lives
in moves and shapes a feeling gives
a pensive air floats through each brush
as passion seeks her loving touch
I think it'd be better that way
Maybe I should just do it this time
No matter how hard I try,
I'm still not good enough
Not good enough for my friends
Not good enough for my boyfriend
I'm not even good enough for my own family
Maybe my brother won't resent me when I'm gone
Maybe my sister will understand that I was trying to help her
Maybe my boyfriend will realize that there was someone better.
I should just do it
Because no matter how hard I try
I'll never be good enough
To make the people I care about
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 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
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.
I live it.
- p. winter