I've grown tired of love poems,
They are all dried up ink,
Forgotten valentines,
Stale ideas to think,
Upon receiving your letter,
I remembered the weather,
Care package bouquets,
and I hope you get betters,

She cries.
She whispers her pain into my ear.
She lays down on her bed of roses.
She sobs.
She covers her face with the pillow.
She says your name and breaks down.
She curls up like a child.
She looks out her window.
She silently weeps.
She wipes her tears.
She pretends she isn't hurt.
She's stronger than us all.

They say no one knows you like you know yourself.
When all I hear is the sound of the light bulb above me whirring with energy
And all I feel is the empty silence within my mind, which surrounds me,
The true version of you creeps up from behind the secret doorway.

Loneliness burns my skin and sorrow pours overflowing out of my soul.
I could smell the fresh scent of burnt flesh.
I could see the invisible tears splashing onto the floor.
I could hear my silent screams being shouted into nonexistence.
But he keeps me from letting my blood spill, and traps it inside to keep the flow going like a rushed river trying to race to leap off of a waterfall.
Into the unknown.
Into the abyss.
I taste the bitterness of my solitude and craze.

I do not quite understand why…
Why he insists on grabbing my arm and pulling me into oblivion.
Explosions go off around me and I just stand still.
Like shackles, I’m kept locked into the ground.
My feet won’t move from this very spot
Because I’m afraid that now, I see him around me.

He acts like my friend, but leaves me feeling all the more alone than the previous time before this one.
Each time bringing a newer sense of where I’ve been before.
Loneliness reminds me to instill that thought that I have lost it all.
He makes me empty promises of future adventures then leaves me on the floor.
Loneliness, you’re intoxicating because I know you like the back of my hand.
You make me think you know me better than I know myself…

He wasn’t fat and jolly.
He was muscular and calm.
He didn’t have a white, fluffy beard or a bright red suit.
Instead, he had a goatee with little white straglers,
And instead of the thick, red and white coat and hat,
He wore blue pajama pants and an old white t-shirt.

From my room, I heard rustling sounds, sounds similar to paper crumbling.
I heard feet, trying to tip-toe across the living room.
I heard kind voices.
It had to be him! It just had to!
I jumped out of bed to meet him with excitement.
My six year old self felt the need to give into my childish curiousity.
Quiet as a mouse, I stepped lightly to my hiding spot.
Did I want to meet him? Am I ready?

Hiding behind the hallway entrance, I peeked over the doorway.
There he was! Santa Claus!
I had laid my eyes on Santa Claus, just as I believed I would.

Instead of rushing out to greet him,
I chose to stay hidden.
Santa was wrapping mine and my brother’s Christmas presents.
My eyes saw him roll out sheets of wrapping paper – as shiny as sleek gold.
He placed pretty, ruby red bows on each of our gifts – each so ornate in their own natures.

Santa was such a giving man…
That’s why I’d make sure he’d get his favorite cookies!
I was told by my father that chocolate chip cookies were Santa’s favorite.
Santa gently placed each of our presents under the tree with ease.
At that moment, he stood up, looking at our tree, focusing on our star at the top.
He was smiling.
He stared at it for a good minute, like a man who had found serenity.

I had been thrilled to see my gifts…
The idea of opening them overran my heart with so much giddy excitement.
Yet, Santa was happy with giving me gifts.
Who gives Santa gifts?

A second voice came from the kitchen.
It was my mother’s!
“Don’t forget to eat the cookies!”
Mom knows Santa?
Confusion filled my little head.

I could not fathom the truth.
Then it hit me!
My dad is Santa Claus!
His signature changes for just one night!
And his favorite cookie is chocolate chip too!!
AND he knows exactly what I want for Christmas!

Without making a sound, I tip-toed back to my bed.
I closed my eyes, and smiled.
My dad is Santa Claus.


I had known Santa my whole life.
He may not have been Santa to the whole planet,
But he was my Santa.
Dad always showed our family the magic of Christmas,
And as all of us got older… toys grew to be of less importance in my desires.
I eventually desired electronics and nicer clothes.
But as I grew up… all I’d want for Christmas was for him to stick around for another Christmas.
As every year passed, he grew more tired and weak,
But he never stopped giving.
He was also Santa to numerous individuals.
Giving is a lifestyle, and that was his.
My dad was my Santa Claus.
Santa in the true sense,
Spreading the love of giving to others till his last day.