You would think that i don’t slump that i am always happy, my cheeks are always red and rosy. Well think again. Being kept in the icy cold can get to you’ it creeps up like creepy crawlers starting at the nip of your toes and no open fire or warm sentiment can change the feeling it leaves with you.
I am suppose to the last symbol of hope when everything is black and bleak, when you would kill for some warmth or rape your own mother to climb back into the womb that begot you. They live they love they fornicate and when there is no more pleasure to be sucked out of the morrow they cry and they cry calling on me putting up my colours, chanting my name singing my praises. Expecting me to come swooping from the sky giving them gifts of more pleasure.
What of my pleasure? Where is my peace, why is my merry merry days? No all i have is days of cold hidden at the depths of their minds clawing at a chance of freedom, hopping that one day i might be free.
Three hundred and sixty-four days i what so that they may set me free. And what of my freedom?
It is nothing but to work to bring them more joy. Well this year i say no more. Gone the red and rosy cheeks, gone the gifts and the good will to man, dead is the spirit i so boldly represent. This year they live without me, let them celebrate the sadness they have created, they have been babied enough.
Tonight they i ride no more, the sky’s will not hear my ho ho ho, and if i was to fly i will leave behind me a black trail of smoke and despair, the red i wear will be the blood of their veins. Let them climb out of the pit of their own making let them suffer the cold of the days.
And what if they still believe in me, i believe in them no more. Gone the days when i say merry Christmas to one and all and peace on earth. This year i say feel the cold of heartless souls.
To you all merry fucking Christmas.
Yours no more
Santa Clause
20 reasons to sleep on the first night.
14 years ago
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