The Middle of Winter

I wrote this poem today and figured I should share it. While I love writing poems, I feel like they are my weakness. Of all the things I write, I usually never end up loving my poems. My confidence level of them isn’t very high, mostly because I am still trying to figure out what exactly a poem is, and what constitutes a “real poem” from some lines strung together. I guess, mostly I judge a poem by content, the mood it sets, and how it sounds when read out loud. I don’t really have an opinion of my own poems because I wrote them. Sometimes I know when I use words I don’t like, but mostly I just write poems for the sake of writing them. They may suck and they may not. Also, I would love the write a post sometime about my short history when it comes to writing poetry, rather than just cramming it in here.

I haven’t written any in a while, except for one on New Year’s Eve. I warn you that I am a huge amateur. However, I would really appreciate some feedback on it! So yeah, sorry for the long intro, without further ado, here it is:

The Middle of Winter

January 5, 2012

You sit with your cup of coffee,

soaking in its slowly dissipating heat,

because you couldn’t

afford your heating bill this month.

You try to come up with nice things to tell yourself,

like:  It’ll be okay, and Tomorrow

will be better.

But, hell,

you don’t even know if that’s true.

You so much want to believe it,

but you would rather believe in

the facts.

The facts that say you are broke,

and alone, and the cold

has reached the core of your bones.

You can’t keep your fingers

from trembling, shivering.

And the wind that blows

burns your eyes so that you

can’t see

the light that still shines in the sky,

and on the television screen,

and in the single lightbulb

over the bathroom


The light that never leaves you,

has only been blocked out by

the clouds you summoned over it,

by the “facts” that eat your thoughts.

It is merely an illusion,

one that you cannot look past,

because you believe those so-called facts

define you.

It is hardly the middle of winter;

it has snowed but once.

Yet you are trapped in ice and

shivering your way through


A single snowflake falls out your window,

but you are blind to its beauty.

Instead you fill your head with metaphors:

Oh how the snowflake will fall 

and die without love, just as I.

While in truth, the snowflake

has all it will ever need. It is perfect as it is,

no matter how or where it falls,

no matter what you call it.

For it can only ever be itself- a simple,

yet intricate, feather-like ice crystal,

birthed from the clouds that

only just block the light out for a little while,


But never can they hinder its beauty,

nor can they block out the light



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