As a child
I'd wake to
crisp Canadian winters
fall out of bed,Okay, here it sounds like a list, which doesn't work so well in poetry. Fix that up by making it flow better and not sound like a to do list.
pick myself up.
And then
I'd
notice
it.
A frozen sea
of green and me

Dreamer wrote:Technically, Snow doesn't turn read with blood unless there's heaps and heaps of it in one single spot. But seeing as these things tend to spread out, unless she gutted herself, I don't think the snow would turn read. Taking it from someone who's had a lot of idiot moments and who has seen blood fall into snow, it actually turns this sick-ish looking orange-ish yellow color. But given poetic licence and such, I suppose you have a right to make the snow red.
Regarding the actual content of the poem, the message you're trying to convey here is a little fuzzy. For me personally, I'm thinking of projects started and then forgotten, never finished. But I don't get depressed over any of them when I remember later, no matter how long its been. And I definitely don't get suicidal. You might want to make your metaphor more clear to ease up on the confusion.
I just couldn't wait,
for a girl to seal her fate...
~Cheez_Burger~