Three stoic monitors,
Illuminating the room with a blue light glow.
If he squints hard enough, he can almost see
The ghastly spectres that crawl up his walls.
Haunting shadows
Of guilt and inferiority.

Waking up
At twelve o'clock PM sharp.
He was stirred awake by a dull drumming.
The sound of his suprachiasmatic nucleus
Echoing in his ear
Alerted him to consciousness.
He sunk his bare feet into the Texan snow,
Standing naked out in the flurry and
Somehow not getting cold.

He looked back at the footprints he made.
Despite having just stepped outside,
He had a nagging suspicion that
They had been there all along.

Whether you're a victim
Of a firestorm, sandstorm, snowstorm,
Remember: hell hath no fury
Like mother nature scorned

Pillow fight moments,
          as a snow storm

of feathers

                       coat the room in a allure.

                     Weightless
snow ball fights ensue,

                tickling those they gently grace.

                         Parents walk in,  
stillness as the last feather descends.

Then laughter,
                as mum & dad do pillow

                 snow angels on the floor.

Christmas music is playing softly
The snow is falling, delicatly dancing around us
The ground is freezing, the road is covered
Completely white
A white Christmas
Sirens can be heard, they're approaching quickly
The only light coming from the cars headlights
Enough light to see the blood
Turning the snow from white to red

They fall for all to see,
an emotional wreck.
The queen of selfies,
a broken mess.
Check the label,
grasp the best, outlier, different from the rest.
A wandering eye,  
engaged to chaos.
An optimistic seed,
still part of growth,
masked with a broken cloak,
just something to fix,
truths scare most.
Weakened souls,
from broken homes,
destine to live disguised,
break from the chains of emotion,
and let lies die to let live what was hidden.
New beginnings.