There is a curious case of nature
In how it seems to recede with the winter.
It's all fine and colorful,
Sun washes in,
Feelings are vibrant until life is halted,
All is still and time is waiting.
Guessing in your mysticism,
We were in harmony on that wavelength.
Where has the communication gone?
Do you know it's Christmas time?
Do you know I'm aging
and in that fashion, feeling my weight in years?
Do I need to remind you my contribution?
Is my fault, my burden now, that I am not the charitable
entity that I once appeared?
I am tearing at my stitching, I cannot expand my portions.
Cut me some slack,
Ease up on me.
What is this,
I'm not naive,
Or at least as naive as you must think me.
How under my psychotic depression are you painting me
to your handler this evening?
Am I the next to go?
I know it's approaching Boxing Day, and that fact
has not once brought me comfort.
This restless spirit is turning into anxiety, I'm scared,
and you're indifferent.
This is grave, and I'm not blowing this one
out of the slightest proportion.
This is killing me and I feel so replenished.