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

It took sixteen years to become acquainted with my old self.

The self that:

Could not write on crumpled papers,
Or sleep in untucked sheets,
Played her scales robotically,
Left no word incomplete.
Labelled all the cupboards,
Books were organized by name,
This was the life I led.
I never knew that it would change.

it took 4 weeks to fall in love with my new self

the
self
tha
t

writes on ollld receipts,
   kicks the covers        off the bed
     ~lets my fingers play freely~
         not every sentence has an en-
            stores shoes with coffee mugs!!
               writes in mArGiNs to save time
                  not all rules need to be   f o l l o w e d
                    not all poems need to

                        sound the same

who knew that little pill
would teach me how to live
not erase the 'me' that showed
but bring out the 'me' that hid
16 years of worry
of obsessive, anxious thoughts
who knew that little pill
would change me
I,
for one,
did not
.

- p. winter

Blackbird baby
Wings of charcoal
You think the sky is falling.
Your lonely song
Straddling the wind
Searching for an audience.
The home you grew up in
Had white walls and high ceilings.
Pure and sheltered.
You thought the room was shrinking,
Pinning your wings to your sides.
But baby
You were just growing.
Destined to break down the door.
To let the art of your dangerous spirit
Use the clouds for a canvas.
Blackbird baby
You've been raised by doves.
They've passed on their sparkling reputation
But it doesn't suit your matte feathers.
You're a whole other kind of beautiful.

Blackbird baby
Wings of charcoal
You think the sky is falling.
You feel so alone
You don't see how they envy you.
Your mind is a weapon, my dear.
Never doubt it for a moment.
Your body is a treasure, my dear.
Love it like nothing else.
Your time is valuable, my dear.
Don't waste it on what brings you no joy.
These lessons you have yet to learn.
You see only the thunder in the sky.
But there's a world of rainbows to be discovered.
Blackbird baby
You find it so hard to believe
That you are loved.
But you are everything to me.

Blackbird baby
Wings of charcoal
You think the sky is falling.
You see pieces of it hit the ground.
The end in sight.
Let me hold you.
Let me hold your whole world
So tightly that all the pieces of the sky
Fit back into place.
Afraid of what could go wrong
You pin your own wings to your sides.
Force of habit.
But without them
How will you fly?
Blackbird baby
Open your wings for me.
Show me your dance of ebony
Like a silouette on the sunset.
Blackbird baby
Hatch from your prison

And soar.

it must be magic
how you take my darkness and
turn it into fire

- p. winter

"... had an early lunch."
"... already ate... not hungry."
My daily white lies.

One hundred pounds. Most
Teenage girls' dream size, but the
Weight of my nightmares.

"... eating disorder..."
The last words I hear before
My head hits the ground.

I don't even feel
it anymore. My body
Got used to starving.

A penny for each
Meal I've thrown out could buy me
Another water.

Work out until your
Size is small as your daily
Calorie intake.

"You're far too skinny"
They don't see the fat girl that
Lives in my mirror.

- p. winter

it's the gentleness
in her voice
that takes me back
to lullabies
of the golden harp

the strings plucked
like her vocal cords
sing soft chords
of grace

the curved physique
of her body
fits the mold
of an angel

rounded shoulders
provide comfort
where the teary
come to rest

and when she sings
i see my childhood
i feel the pillow
'neath my head

when she sings
i hear her sacrifice
and feel the wings
of her prayers

when she sings
i swear the melody
gives life
to wintered tulips

mother of mine
your love
it is the beauty
of the golden harp

- p. winter

i come with baggage
more than i can hold, i pray
that you are stronger

- p. winter

I have a picture of you saved,
For no eyes but my own,
That I take out of my drawer
Every day when I come home.

I pretend you're here in front of me,
As your body remains statuous,
And cry into the picture
As my grief for you grows fatuous.

For though your captured smile is still
I hear your loving laugh.
That joy can't even be contained
Inside this photograph.

And though your captured skin is still
I feel your heat reach mine,
Radiating through the frame,
Its mem'ries stopping time.

And though your captured eyes are still
The beauty of your gaze is just
Too much for this poor photo
To be able to contain.

They say a thousand words
A single picture can confess.
But your frozen lips say nothing
As the sun sets in the west.

In your melancholic silence
I place the picture in the drawer.
Tomorrow I'll take it out again
And grieve your love once more.

- p. winter

the streets are filled with lies
of "how are you?" "oh, i'm fine!"s
strangers smile away all of
the battles that they hide
nobody's fine
nobody's great
it's not polite to articulate
the struggles that you're going through
but that's fine
how are you?

- p. winter

those who say it's a beautiful feeling
to fall in love
have always been loved
in return

- p. winter

Throughout history,

Hearts have been broken,
Children have died,
Tears have been shed
By widows who cried,
Wars have been fought,
Homes have been burned,
Errors repeated
From lessons unlearned,
Good have been murdered,
Bad given freedom,
Rich throw to waste
What the poor yearn to feed on.
Few have found refuge;
Re-learned how to smile.

Who?

The poets who sat down
And wrote for a while.

- p. winter

I met you around the time Zac and I were to be engaged.
It was an arranged marriage,
But he promised me a lifetime of happiness.
They told me some loving would benefit my health.
That he could make me smile again.
So I stuck with him.
Every night.
You and I would meet behind his back.
He wasn't the only one who made me happy.
There was something about you
That made me forget about him.
Almost as if
I didn't need him anymore.
But they said I was commited to this relationship.

They told me Zac would work his magic 3-4 weeks after our first date.
And he did.
I smiled.
I forgot.
I relaxed.
I let go.
It was nice to be happy again.
Everyone around me saw it.
But then it was time to take it up a notch.
I was told to love him in the mornings and evenings,
Twice a day.
Then three times.
Then four.
Until I forgot what it was like to be single.
They didn't know I snuck out to be with you.

Eventually I was a whole new person.
I didn't worry about matched socks.
I didn't cry over spilled secrets.
I didn't retreat when the going got tough.
I learned to laugh at myself
Listen to myself
Love myself
Be myself.
The quiet world of whites and greys began to
EXPLODE
Into fireworks of vibrant colours.
I picked flowers!
I made music!
I flew kites!
The old me
Faded
From memory.

I was happy.
I am happy.

They said my life would never be the same.
That Zac had seeped into my brain
And taught me to see the beauty in life.
To find the rainbows in the rain.
They congratulated us on our marriage.
The couple of the century.
But, you see, I met you around the time Zac and I were to be engaged.
Maybe it was a coincidence.
Maybe it was the timing.
Maybe it was fate.
But I had broken up with Zac a month after he proposed.
I never met him twice a day.
Or three times.
Or four.
All this time
He wasn't the one
Who had taught me
To be happy.

- p. winter

The thread of hope
That my name made you nervous
That my eyes filled your dreams
That my touch was electric
The thread of hope
That my voice stained your mind
That my smell gave you goosebumps
That my taste burned your tongue
The thread of hope
That you didn't want to leave
That it hurt to walk away
That some part of you was hesitant
This thread
It coils around me
Cutting off my circulation
This thread
It ties itself into a noose
Around my neck
And yet
This thread of hope
That you loved me
I refuse to cut
Though it suffocates.
This thread
Will be
The death of me.

- p. winter

I replay it in my head

L osing our temper
O verthinking
V iolent words
E xaggerations

Y ou walked
O ut the door
U ncivilly

S till, I wait
T omorrow you might come back
I leave the door unlocked
L isten to our song
L et it play over and over again

I pour another glass

A llowing myself to
L ose my mind
W ondering
A pologizing to myself
Y our voice in my ears
S uffocating my thoughts

W ould it have ended differently
I f I had let you win
L et go of my pride
L ooks like we'll never know

- p. winter

Would I e'er compare thee to an autumn's eve
With forests of fiery hues?
Or to a winter's birth
As shards of angels' wings so slowly fall?
Or to a spring's breath
That blossoms all that lives and breathes?
Or to a summer's sun-kissed daydream
Dreamt in fields of grasses tall?
It appears thou art so full of life
There beeth not a reason,
To compare thy being or thy love
To any living season.
Autumn rests in thine auburn hair,
Winter chills thy cheeks so fair,
Spring awakens in thy laughter,
And summer sunlight with thine eyes doth share.
I would not compare thee to any day
Or any time of year,
For all my days are lovely
An I have my love near.

- p. winter

I can't stop writing
These little, three line poems.
It's haiku fever.

- p. winter

If ever I forgive you
For the emptiness I feel,
Know that it took all my strength
To force my pride to kneel.

And if ever I regain the sense
My heart alone has worth,
Know I fought to find it
When you left me in its dearth.

- p. winter

A rocking chair sits
On the porch
Of a house
On the corner of ol’ Honey Lane.
It looks over fields of lavender stems
And rocks with the wind and the rain.
I grew up walking past it,
On ol’ Honey Lane,
And would sometimes drop by for a swing.
I brought books and some snacks,
Played with dollies and jacks,
This poor rocker withstood everything.
I grew a bit older but kept coming back
To my rocker on ol’ Honey Lane.
I’d bring it my sorrows and rock til the morrow,
Forgetting my worries and pain.
The gentle caressing of lavender lullabies
Scattered the clouds of grey.
And whene’er I was lonely, I knew that only
My rocker could brighten my day.
Still older I grew and soon began dreaming
Of cities more couth and refined.
So I hopped on a plane, fled my ol' Honey Lane
And left my poor rocker behind.
I traded my jeans for a dazzling dress,
And dollies for wine and pearls.
But nothing within could dare to trade in

The mem’ry of that young, little girl.
The girl who spent hours watching lavender fields,
On the corner of ol’ Honey Lane.
I knew without haste, there was no time to waste,
I had to go find her again.
So back home I flew, to see family and friends,
To smell lavender waft through the air.
I ran to the porch of the old corner house,
And saw my dear old rocking chair.
I hopped on it’s seat, kicked my feet off the ground,
And remembered the wind and the rain.
As the sun went to sleep in the lavender fields,
So I slept on my rocker
On ol’ Honey Lane.

- p. winter

Everyone gets sad every now and then; gloomy, down in the dumps. But like rainbow after storm we find the light again and move on from our sadness, allowing ourselves to live beautifully and colourfully.

For some, this does not apply. There is no rainbow after the storm for their storm never ends. It's a thickness that dwells deeper than bone marrow, a sadness attached to the core of their chests. A longing for a relief that will never be granted. This sadness is deadly.

So how does one love those who refuse to be loved? How do you look them in their clouded eyes and tell them they mean the world to you? How do you watch them hate everything about themselves and have no way of showing them how perfect they are in your eyes? How do you make it stop?

You can't, it's not that simple. This sadness is not a light switch that can be flicked on and off. You'll never fully save them from it (this will hurt you almost as much as them), but you can try to make it easier.

Listen to what they have to say, don't force them to be like you,
Love them for whate'er they are, their coping mechanisms too.
Hold them closely to your chest and always let go last,
Teach them to live in the moment instead of dwelling on the past.

There is no perfect way to love someone who doesn't love themselves.  There will always be down days, relapses, set backs, but none are intentional. Do not be angry with the one you love for not being able to leave the house for a day. Do not scold them for crying over spilled milk - literally. Do not make them feel like this uncontrollable sadness is entirely their fault - if you do this, you are not worthy of their love to begin with.

Loving someone sad is never easy, it can take some work, but you must remember how much work it takes for them to accept the love that they believe
They are not worthy of.

- p. winter

And oh, how sweet, the words you speak, they taste.
How soft they blow, how sure they flow; no haste.
An old eclipse, how slow, your lips -- they part.
So young, naive, quickly deceived, my heart.
How warm, your eyes, they hypnotize my soul.
And how I miss the touch, the kiss, you stole.
So sure was I that you'd be my first love.
But love's a thing we know nothing thereof.
Foolish of me to fall so deeply in.
How long I thought your smile was not a sin.
And oh, how used, how scared, confused, my trust.
Feelings so shy, that you deny, 'tween us.
How ruefully, our memories, they fade.
How bittersweet our love; like lemonade.

- p. winter

A gentle chorus wafts through the air as abandoned castles sigh, like a cat resting in a sun patch, and ancient cathedrals unitedly chant the song of religious history.
U nveil the glistening treasures deep within the mines of the mountain side; feel the butterflies in your stomach as you dive down the shafts.
S ing the song of the Alps as they enchant you with innocent snow and seductive diamonds, with charming forests and guilty avalanches.
T aste the morning brew on your tongue, basking in the warmth on the cafe patio, listening to the street musicians purify the tourist's ears.
R ed rooftops, orange balconies, yellow sunsets, blue skies, purple chocolate bars. But nothing is green here; for this land envies none.
I return through the skies like the prodigal son, having gone for so long, missing the life I was born to live; but everything is different now and the streets I once called home have become foreign.
A ustria, my mother, I remain an orphan.

- p. winter

on we go
alone we grow
to cradle grief
and seek relief
of final breath
that quiet death
would unto us
at last bestow

- p. winter

For now it’s torture
But one day I’ll get to say
You were worth the wait

- p. winter

No apparent cause
No apparent reason.
Inexplicable.
Tears streaming down her face like flowing rivers holding all her secrets.
Music blasting to cover the sound of her pounding heart and chilling screams.
Fingers running through her hair as she grimaces at this mask she wears
With a beaming smile and rosy cheeks that yell "I'M DOING FINE!"
Because the louder she shouts it the more she believes it herself.
It's inexplicable
Why she feels this way.
Looking for a way out of her own thoughts she runs into memories she thought she forgot.  
Her parents screaming about how to pay bills as their daughter watches with shivers running down her spine.
Friends luring her into a world she vowed not to join with their bottles glistening in the light and the smoke surrounding them clouding her judgement.
Yet it's inexplicable
How she dealt with the voices in her head and the endless possibilities of how to escape them but there was always that one catch.
She hung on for dear life to the rope that would take her dear life.
But she was running out of reasons why her dear life would not be a reasonable sacrifice.
She put up with herself for so long and now, as she crumbles onto the ground, she finds every feeling gushing out of her.
Every night she had spent hugging her pillow.
Every dream she had dreamt that didn't work out.
Every friend she had found that thought she wasn't enough.
Every promise she was given that in the end it would be okay.
For so long she told everyone that she was strong.
She could handle it, she could push through.
But there comes a point where even the strongest ones break.
And when she broke, she thought she'd never be put back together.
For the remaining shattered shards of her heart were jigsaw pieces and no one had the time to sit down and glue them tight.
It's inexplicable
Why this sadness dominates even the happiest of moments.
The realization that nobody can fall in love with someone so broken and hopeless sinks in.
And she sinks to the floor
With her inexplicable sadness.

- p. winter

morning
    karma
       luck
        day
         job
         try
       wife
      heart
  evening
      effort
      work
      night
  ­       bye

none
of
which
are
good
any
more

- p. winter

I feel my skull shrink.
Mental voices scream as the
Walls slowly compress.

- p. winter

you steal so many nights from me
by leaving me alone
to weep and grip the sheets
and know you won’t be coming home.

- p. winter

The words I cannot say to you
I'll trace along your spine
To a record player's susurrating song.
I fight the feel of falling,
Asleep or otherwise,
But the nocturnes lull,
And so you pull me quietly along.

- p. winter

The name itself is but euphony.
The woman is
No different.
With ringlets wild,
Faith of child,
Fingers delicate,
Eyes wise,
Her blushēd cheeks
Are watercoloured
Sunrise waking
Winter skies.
There is music in her laughter.
A new note struck
With every opening of her
Pillowed lips.
In times of sorrow,
Speak her name.
Find healing in loving
Julia.

- p. winter

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

- p. winter

Darling, when you smile,
The brightest stars become but
Embers in the ash.

- p. winter

she was gentle
refreshing
her presence was felt
but in the blink of an eye
she could vanish
with the wild wind in her hair
and in the absence
of her free spirit
all was eerily still

- p. winter

Perhaps the most
Difficult challenge
I've had to face
Is trying to believe
I could ever be
Remotely worthy
Of your love.

- p. winter

Pull the trigger, kick the stool.
The world doesn’t mourn every feather-winged fool.
Close your eyes, whisper your goodbyes.
The world doesn’t cry for each angel that dies.

- p. winter

Each move intrepid.
So much could be lost, but oh
How much could be won...

- p. winter

He didn't love me.
He loved the way I danced to our favourite songs.
He didn't love me.
He loved the curious way I admired simple fish in the pond.
He didn't love me.
He loved the way I frowned when I knew I was wrong.
He didn't love me.
Right?
He couldn't have.
Because that would make me a monster.
To see his hopeful heart
And leave him nonetheless.
He didn't love me.
He didn't love me.
Dear God
Please tell me
He didn't love me.

- p. winter

I never cared for
Wine until you kissed me with
Its taste on your lips.

- p. winter

what a pleasure
an honour
a dream come true
to live in a world
in a time
that holds you

- p. winter

the desert whispers…

water, at last, in my reach!

all mirages fade.

- p. winter

I know that it hurts
But darling, beauty is pain.
Now, back to the scale...

- p. winter

She was a rest in a bar full of staccatos.
She was the note played pianissimo and the key that didn’t sing.
She had no forte in her soul, her steps were slurring phrases.
This girl was the music of a broken string.
Hers were the fingers stiff and cold; and the lip plate never kissed.
A metronome of self-doubt always ticking in her ears.
Never allowed a change in tempo, never shown to spread her wings.
Singing lessons from the deaf for 15 years.

The other was a pickup note, anxious to play the tune.
The dancer skipping steps up ledger lines.
The crescendo of passion, the diminuendo of a lullaby,
This girl no blaring trumpet could outshine.
But though her eyes were made of stardust her heart pulsed slowly, portato.
No accompanist, no duet, no conductor to keep the beat.
Her cheeks stung from the disguise, her worry slowed her, legato.
Compensating for loneliness with quick tempo deceit.

But, like broken triads, fate had it the two would somehow fit.
Drawn together as tied notes, destined to play their piece.
One so controlled by the orchestra, the other yearning for a duet.
The enchanting harmony within them had always burned to be released.
They played as one instrument, arpeggios overlapping in a heavenly key.
Swinging in synchronization, the melody swam magically through the night.
No longer controlled by metronomes, no longer stuck singing solo,
Forever, together, their own sheet music they would write.

- p. winter