Every year at Christmas
The tree goes by the wall
I drag the **** thing from downstairs
And I tug it down the hall
The lights go up with tinsel
The ornaments and star
Then I go downstairs and knock one back
Behind my little two tap bar

I've done it now for forty years
Each year, the tree and lights
The tinsel and the ornaments
To brighten up the nights
The cards I get go on the wall
No baking do I do
I go downstairs and have a drink
Sometimes I might have two

The kids, not here, they have their lives
I get a call on Christmas Day
It's far to far to come out here
And there's just no room to stay
The boys have hockey, the girls as well
So they won't be coming soon
They play their first game at three
So I get their phone call right at noon

I put my little Cornish hen
In the oven for my meal
I've got some frozen veggies
And a Christmas ******* for the "feel"
I sit alone at Christmas
I watch the telly, have a beer
It's not the same with out you
It's not Christmas, you're not here

Still every year the tree comes out
I put it where you'd say
We'd move it at least fifteen times
Until it found a place to stay
I drag the decorations out
I've not yet bought something new
I'm here alone at Christmas
With my memories spent with you.

its been a month
since a blade has touched my skin,
and as i was taking a shower,
i shaved my legs and
i accidentally nicked myself.
i watched as blood
dripped down my leg.
i looked at in awe,
i know i miss the feeling,
maybe one more scratch wouldnt hurt?
but, thats where i stopped,
i didnt try to nick my leg again,
i didnt let the thoughts get to me,
i won.

another day down,
a whole life to go.
{dear god that sounds awful, huh?}

Oh Coffee Machine! My Coffee Machine! You've finally finished my drink!
For every morning you brew me one -I place my mug in the kitchen sink,
Every drop of your goodness; topped with whip cream; finished just in time,
The things you make, lattes, coffee, are absolutely divine,
Just as I was about to fill and pour the once empty mug,
almost as empty as i'm feeling; there's still that leftover bit of hope,
But wait, Can it be? My old trustee machine?
It mustn't be the end of my coffee machine peering near,
It can't be the end of my morning routine,
For all I hear are crashes; unfamiliar to my ear.

My Coffee Machine! Dear Coffee Machine,
The hiss of steamed milk, cream and roasted coffee beans,
The wisps of steam lingering in the air as you make my coffee,
Dripping ever so slowly in my cup -Coffee that's dark, bitter and black as night,
Early in the morning before breakfast; before I take a bite,
This half-full cup of coffee won't do me good for the day,
Without you I think that the morning skies themselves will be grey,
But wait, My dear coffee machine!
I keep pressing the button clear
It can't be the end of my morning routine,
For all I hear are crashes; unfamiliar to my ear.

Waking up with no cup of coffee, ask not what the future may bring,
Without the energy, I don't know whether sorrow shall reign or happiness ring,
Everyday I now wake to breathe deeply the aroma of life's bel-fry,
For if I ever smell the subtle hint of coffee in the air, I let out a sigh.
Oh Coffee Machine! Dear Coffee Machine,
You've been here for so many years,
It can't be the end of my morning routine,
For all I hear are crashes; unfamiliar to my ear.

Too lazy to be ambitious,
I let the world take care of itself.
Ten days' worth of rice in my bag;
a bundle of twigs by the fireplace.
Why chatter about delusion and enlightenment?
Listening to the night rain on my roof,
I sit comfortably, with both legs stretched out.

I went to this funeral the other day
and had a blast, the black suits
contrasting the pale faces of those shocked
by death, meshing with the warm
red of crying eyes. Hot sun flashed
through the stained glass
illuminating the carefully chosen
mahogany bed where the lucky one
slept.  I cannot picture
a more beautiful scene.

And it only gets better! Family
coming together, joined with emotion,
seeing old friends and meeting new ones
The young and the old
both dressed in Sunday’s best
captures a timeless cycle.
What is there not to love?

My funeral is going to be
the best. Come one, come all –
everyone’s invited! The low hum
of the cellos creates an ominous
tone overpowering the occasional
sad sniff, thankfully.
Stop crying you pathetic things
and come laugh with me.

To the ones who have a brain
And know how to use it.
But when a passion kicks in
They seem to lose it.

To those who are smarter than that.
Those of us who know better,
But don't do better.
Blinded by passion.

Those of us whose brains keep tapping us on the shoulder
As we wildly run after our hearts.
Knowing the heartache we're running towards
And powerless to stop it.

Here's to the ones who can converse about
The origins of the universe, time theory, and physics.
Who can't string two words together
When all they can think about is touching who they are talking to.

"Oh... the power and the passion"
Oh the power in the passion.
The power to sweep you away regardless.
The power to take over the body and mind.

"Where the heart leads, the mind will follow"
Perhaps begging the heart to rethink
(Oh foolish mind).
Where the heart leads, I will follow.
Oh foolish, intelligent, me.