some pray looking down, some do it looking up. some do not pray at all.

I found a letter adressed to Santa circa mora than 20 years ago

it asked questions to which my reaction blunted the reflection

on the mirror, on the puddle by the curb on which I forged strength to raise and carry on

got once we crawled so we may raise and erect walk in control of our very step

I firmly believe we recreate memories to better suit our needs in our sleep

renegates to the truth, we combat emotional damage with fairytales and happy endings

grey matter highs dissipate words that generate conflict in the sounds of resistance

to extend my hand towards a child and get them on the path,

that's not a lot to ask for Santa for, right?

looking feral and wild young one as the winter bites back

my mood worsens in rooten fashion, I do growl to the darkest dark

dig, scratch and act cold towards the good vibes tempo

be like a fool and lose all control but keep it a secret?

will it happen again? are we ear marked to become token entertainment?

the water chugged by cynical egocentric megalomaniacs and somehow stability

battles boredom as it pushes IQ upwards, morality to the sidewalk and few notice

if I could not change the world or know everything worth knowing

I sure would hope to had a crack and half a swing at doing this thing some call living and growing

up.