The Christmas Gallows: Walking in a winter pile of work.
Childhood.
When did we lose it? When did we even lose the sight of it?
Stuck here in mindless shadows and silhouettes of who I don’t want to be. Found myself crammed in open spaces, ready to escape to corners where I’m familiarly oriented. Often misconceiving the facts of life and undermining reality.
Innocence.
Notion of misconception. Lost in transition. Pre-pubescent years and the adolescent stages. You ask; what do we have to lose? Everything, my dear, everything.
An outstretch of the brain, an overstretch of the mind. Certain times, when it feels too easy to be true, often the mind deceives, the brain misconceives. The messages are sent in lies and deceit.
Dangerous Liaisons.
Not the typical kind, but the ones in your mind.
You work less, gain more. What’s there to be ashamed of?
Frankensteins in the world of hate and scorn.
That makes two of us. You, and me. The reader, and the writer.
Christmas is near, but no season is complete without the pile. That pile of work. Ahh yes, that wonderful pile of work. And I, buried beneath this bung-hole, further down to where fossils survive. I, proclaim myself a Christmas tree, not the one full of joyful lights and happy green leaves. The fake one, the plastic one, in this world of decrepit immorality. The shorter one, in this world of sky-high expectations. The one with no more presents under the tree, the post-Christmas.
I surrender.
