December is a cold month.
So cold.
So incomplete.

A time when nature dies,
Along with parts of me.

December is a month of dreary days.
Lit up with lights to mask the pain.

Holiday spirit.
Just an excuse to drink.

Food, family, friends.
It's all just more fuel to think.

I grew up to understand the Grinch.
Whose heart became so small.

And although these lights do warm me,
I want to crush them all.

December is a month of lies and of deceit.
It's not at all about spirit, rather a receipt.

I'd prefer sit alone.
A fireplace and a book.

Than sit along beside others, to have my heart led astray by some crook.