These demons in my head
Are no less real than the
Pills in my hand
Laced in glossy white
And pink
A heavy dose of
Dreams

What's the diagnosis
Besides my obvious
Inability to sleep?

Maybe I am allergic
To these bright lights
Strung around the world
In little clusters

Maybe I am repulsed
By the faint smell of
Pine diffusing off
Her clothes

Maybe I am appalled
At the thought of
Sugar plums twirling
In my ****** up head
While I try to rest
On the stone cold floor

I have a case of hate
A disease completely
Impossible to escape
Jolly is not a word
To me
Anymore

December, December
The way you make my
Pale lips shiver
In the frosty air
The way you make
The green grass crunch
Under my cut up
Feet

I think I may have
Loved you once
Many moons ago
Back when that
Fat guy with the beard
Was real

But now things are
Different
You make my nose
Glow red
And my skin
Dry up in flakes

And I swear,
Miss December
You are ruining
Every second of
Every day

Because it's so much easier
To place the blame
On someone who isn't
Exactly real

Now, back to the pills
Down they go
Along with my words
Along with the poem

Goodnight,
Miss December
I pray to wake in
January's light.