THE SCROOGE IN ME
122304

Cold hands, cold feet
Cold month, cold week
Cold night, the eve of 25th.
There's nothing new
It's just the sign
This yuletide night, im 25.

So i got up
That one cold morn
With colder coffee clutched
Not even hot corn-and-crab soup
To calm my starving paunch.

After my coldest ever meal
I sat on my cold seat
It soon began to dawn on me
I am a Christmas cynic!

The thought of having Christmas day
Send shivers down my spine
The season's zeal and fervor
Don't appeal since I was nine.

Boy I have no idea
What to do on Christmas feast
Should I call pizza?
Watch a flick?
Or stick to MTV?

At 25 I'd rather hibernate
My loneliness I'll laud
For after all I have believed
That Christmas is a fraud.

UNTITLED
032505


The wind is a phonograph,
Of I, the lonely lost
It plays,
Haunting
Seeking, lingering

It plays of us
Of long lost love.
It must,

For my heart whimpers
But laughs…
Then soars…
And dies…

Trees summon the wind
Reverberating

With ears to witness
And to hear is with eyes
All but one stop…
Time.
Flies.