It’s December
tis the season
a once a year wonderland where there’s no room for tears and fears, but it’s 2020 and
here’s the thing
as the temperature fluctuates as much as the direction can changes directions at any given moment
all I could think of is all the Grentches outside of Christmas
how they’ve stolen more than just one holiday,
more than just some materialistic presence
how over this past year
how their spread of concurring and divide has taken over how this shit frightens me and the still young child inside that still grabs at hope like cookies in a jar for this world has proven the victim and villain, the thresholds none has overcome
the newest form of fine print
in our daily contrast constructed lives
when people ask me
what I want this Christmas all I could really think of is my wishlist of face,
how I wish the emptiness that fills me to subside like a drought
after years with no rain, all at once and without warning
how this entire time
just like so many others I’ve been looking for a way out,
one without damning dishonor,
how to build a latter out of tinsel,
how to build a bridge out of gift boxes and ribbon
how to construct a way out with ornament wires and candy canes
how to find a way to get those out my window bridging the gap between me and the bittersweet taste of freedom I’ve almost forgotten the taste of
the funny thing is you’d expect an artist,
a poet like me to break free from my chains and find ways to thrive,
while the truth is I’ve learned how to build a raft out of
my own sheet of poems,
how to keep afloat among the wave of my own covers and
speak with the tongue of the night owl poets
It’s 2020 and all I can think about is how I can’t wait to add that one.
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