Mistletoe and Holly

Why is it

That things always seem to turn

Sour?

And they all crumble under their own weight,

And get all washed out sea.

Why?

Every moment is ruined by the next.

Everything good must end.

And contentment is never overrated,

When it's the only thing you can get.

And somedays,

I wonder what puts me in such an

Awful disposition.

And most days,

I haven't a clue.

So I'm a little bit lost,

And I'd like to just sleep and wake up happy.

Because that happens, sometimes.

And those days are the best.

If I could just wake up all cheery

And feeling good.

Like a motown song.

But more like folk.

Can I wake up wrapped in an acoustic melody,

Bathed in sunlight rays

With the cat at the foot of the bed,

Feeling warm without four hundred blankets on my bed?

Can I just be contentedly happy,

And possibly strum along on my guitar,

And sing a little bit,

And read some good poetry.

In the sun?

With a slight breeze?

I'm so desperately stranded on notions of summertime, already.

When Christmas is only days away.

Only four.

And that's bothering me.

It doesn't feel like Christmas, at all.

And I think, at some point, I crossed the threshold

Called "Christmas is no longer awesome".

And it's tearing me to pieces.

Now it just seems like a day romanticized,

In the past,

When I was little,

And I would wake up early and sneak to the livingroom,

In houses that were all smaller than this.

And I was wild-eyed with sleepy, bed-headed glory.

Because I believed in Santa,

And everything was magical

And wrapped in glittering ribbons,

And my family was perfect,

And we'd go to my grandparents.

And I'd wear a Christmas dress,

And smile funny for photos.

I miss that.

Now it just seems like a sadly material holiday.

And the sparkling grape juice has lost its gleam.

And I take solace only in baking cakes and cookies,

And baking too many of them.

And cooking and wrapping.

And music.

Although sometimes, Silent Night makes me cry.

I sit in the low glitter of multi-coloured twinkle-lights

And cry while the little radio sings.

Christmas seems lonely.

The holidays are troubled and plagued.

I wonder about them,