On this morning children are opening their gifts from under the tree
Finding things they wanted
Finding things they needed
Ripping through the wrapping paper to discover what they received

On this morning children are waking up overjoyed
Running down the stairs to their tree
To find wrapped presents
Waiting to be opened

On this morning parents are woken up by overjoyed screaming children
Being told that Santa came
And left presents for them under the tree
And that the milk and cookies were gone

On this morning living rooms are left a mess
Filled with gifts, wrapping paper, and memories
Filled with kisses, hugs, and smiles
With love and happiness being spread all around

On this morning the breakfast conversations are revolved around the presents they've received
About Santa coming to the home
Wether anyone heard the hooves of the rain deer during the night
Wether anyone saw or heard him while he was there

On this morning families are filled with an overwhelming feeling of joy and love.
Constantly being reminded at how great life is at that very moment.
This of all mornings is one of the happiest of the closing year.

Sometimes, when I get my hopes up, I would imagine a gun in my hands and shoot the flying yellow canary down.
I thought: its life would already have been short-lived, and nothing would have come from it anyway. Better to finish it off fast than to let it suffer.
"The only product of hope is disappointment." That's what I constantly reminded myself.

But then, I realized, what I was shooting at wasn't a canary.

The bird morphed into the shape of a girl, her frightened eyes staring back at me. I knew who she was, I could recognize her anywhere; because I see her everyday.

And then I finally understood.

I wasn't just trying to ****** a bird, or a stranger, or my hopes.
I was trying to **** me. I was destroying myself, starting from the inside out.

I was getting the over-idealistic colours ****** out of my soul, in preparation for the funeral procession that would officially get me stamped and labelled as a sensible, practical, money-making product of society.

Drawn I am to you,
unaware of the force
driving us away
is nothing but our own
cataclysmic personalities.

There is a whisper in
the autumn wind.
It calls for you.
While it is freezing here
and all I can feel
is the numbness of limbs.

Like fire and water,
I cannot exist with you;
yet, cannot exist without.

We are all born gemstones, but fatally fractured, our skin bleeding rubies, brokenness and beauty and tension.  And I have heard it said that it is our decision, whether we see these cracks as channels for rivers of light to run through, or wounds to be bound and healed.  Well, if I tear off these bandages and stretch these arms wide enough, will it prove to you that these gashes cut all the way through, and that I’m willing to bleed my life and all its secrets out for you?

Ever since I was thirteen, thirteen, when that gold rush of blood chose my attractions for me, I’ve been hiding, because I’ve been afraid.  I used to tell myself it was a phase, and then it never ended, and so I told myself to never tell.  And these days I still can’t shake the feeling that I’m walking a tightrope, breathless, over glittering hell.  I tried my best to keep a straight face, but I wanted nothing more than to kiss the lips that cursed me, have those strong hands around my waist, holding me close.

And I took upon myself the burden of convincing everybody else that there was nothing wrong.  The rest of the world was singing something, something bold, and I tried to sing along, but I didn’t know the words.  And every name I was called, every kick when I was down was another blooming stain on a white wedding gown.  I made a promise that I would be buried in the ground before anyone knew, that this closet would become a mausoleum, but grace. broke. through.

After I had been trying to find my own voice, God drew close to me, singing the most beautiful melody.  And I realized that my highest purpose was to harmonize, to run headfirst after truth, finally free from these chains, these lies.  He looked me in the eyes, he kissed my forehead, took my hand in his own and whispered, “You are mine.”

A fellow poet once told me, “Tell your own story, or someone else will tell it for you.”  I’m sick of having my story broken into, broken in two because half my audience thinks that it’s only half true.  It’s been so long since I’ve been honest with you!   And so now I’m coming out with everything, my sexuality and the spirit that is my seal, because both have inhabited this treasured chest of mine.  I have been washed and I am waiting hand in hand with the Divine, and I believe that these wounds will be healed in time.

I met you in the dark
Around one a.m.
You looked like a star that had just fallen
Ready to take my soul.
You got into my car,
Your aroma filled my head with
Lilacs and candle wicks.
Your eyes heavy set from the day,
As black as rare diamonds.
You embraced me and my heart sunk
Down to the depths of the ocean
Where no one knows what lies.
I felt like the air had vanished
And my lungs were crying out.
You kissed me
And my body began to rise
As if I were a ghost.
For I had to keep telling myself
"This must be real."
Your touch, your taste,
I felt as if I had turned into dust
And was flown over the world.
You liberated my soul,
Rather than destroying it.
All I can say,
Is I am happy you have returned to me.
For now I am no longer an empty shell,
I have become as light as air.