Merry Christmas Eve

yea yea i know i have been writing quite a tad bit of highly destructive poetry, so to compensate, I will have this poem grant a bit of hope for this Christmas season. So what is really so fun about Chirstmas, I mean the day still looks like every other day, the sun still rises, the moon still comes up at night. There are no fancy things falling from the sky, nor does Santa Clause climb down the drainage piping of our HDB flats to deliver us presents, even though he would have a really hard time squeezing through window grilles. Yea it is just your ordinary day. Really, that is if you want to be a scrooge! I know Christmas has just been another merchandising project to sell more and keep sales up, but then we would just be missing the whole point of Christmas.

The season to love, not that we don't love everyday, but rather I feel Christmas is a season where we all just take extra effort to be nice, take extra effort to prepare gifts and really to love those people that are close to us. Yea i know its cliche, but I would like to propose this, that we love those that we have not loved in a long while. Where perhaps our father's or even mother's anyone really have done things to make us really ticked off with them or perhaps it is someone that you just cant forgive for doing something against you. I propose we release them this Christmas, and love them. For all of us are definitely bound to love the ones that love us back but how about those who don't, or did not love you, where is the reward in loving those that love you? So i ask that you love those who perhaps you have not really loved in quite a bit or did wrong to you. Yea, do something special this Christmas cos nothing much is gonna happen naturally apart from snow (WHICH WILL BE AMAZING BTW) So if Christmas is not special make it special for yourself!

So here is the poem:

The gnomes work throughout the winter.
They plough, and do my gardening in the winter.
I hope Santa bring them presents.
All seven of them in my keep,
this fortress of solitude where it is quiet.

Only for the crackling of wood on the fire
he whistling of the wind outside.
The sound of trees, with their fur coats on brushing off
the snow.

There the endless days alone,
the minutes sitting in this suede armchair.
Outside the gnomes are tending to my little loves,
herbs, and small trees

they are overgrown with weeds.
The house is in shambles, the fire place is cold as snow,
the trees are burnt and charred black
they stand like ancient African tribal art on display.

Suede is torn, frayed, knitted wool.
All is wrecked, nothing is left.
Only the clock ticking in the left corner.
There, the hands still moving
the sound of hope, sounding, sounding.
Like a metronome, like the beating of my heart.

Looking through the frosted window,
the gnomes are out there
their faces frozen.
I should bring them in, they look cold.
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MERRY CHRISTMAS EVE!!!