I dug a knife into her skull
And slowly twisted it
Until her brain was a puddle at my fingertips.

But she would not die.

I threw burning coals into her eyes
And watched her try to cool them
With her tears.

But, despite the suffering, she just would not die.

I held her head underwater
Until her arms stopped flailing
And the bubbles stopped rising.

And though she drowned, she refused to die.

Something inside her
Was fighting to live.

But I owe her my life for that fight.

I guess I'm not cut out to be a murderer,
I couldn't even ****
Myself.

- p. winter

i've been too stressed to write
i forgot that writing takes
the stress away

- p. winter

i write expendable stories on paper

but the anthems i can't let myself forget
i carve into my wrists

- p. winter

hey you, deli boy
if you're reading this, then stop
reading my poems

- p. winter

Those eyes, oh those eyes.
I've written too many lines
For those hazel eyes.

Those eyes that wander,
That see everything, but mine.
These eyes that wonder.

Those eyes, oh those eyes.
Looking into those eyes, I'll
Write lines 'til I die.

- p. winter