“𝑺𝒆𝒆𝒎𝒔 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒎𝒆 𝒊𝒔 𝒊𝒏 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆,
𝑺𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒂 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓 𝒎𝒆?”
But what does Santa know, though?
I bet on a reindeer even you don’t know.
All year, Santa was hiding in North Pole,
at the same time, I’m hiding my feelings;
what used to be a heart here is now a hole.
January is a beach, December is a cliff.
If the sands would turn to snow,
mountains from Pacific Ocean would grow.

“𝑨𝒍𝒍 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒔𝒆 𝒑𝒆𝒐𝒑𝒍𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒌 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆’𝒔 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒘,
𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝑰 𝒘𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒅𝒊𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒊𝒏 𝒔𝒆𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒕”
But what do I also know?
I dare the trees to be still as the wind blows.
Tropical the whole year, now I feel frozen,
when exactly is the most wonderful time?
Like a prized painting, my heart felt stolen.
My poetry is confessional, for truth is crime.
If you are made of blazing flames,
I am a forest catching fire after fire.