Oh, so, holy flow! Christmas times are strolling fro! No, no, I don't know! What to write when days are cold!
I baked gingerbread cookies. Gingerbread men. Gingerbread reindeer and a gingerbread hen. Gingerbread stars cause I know that I'll go far some place and time just don't know where and when.
Sitting in a cellar, will you be my friend? Will you creep forth with a light like my pen. It smites demons - leaves them kicking and screaming and bleeding out in the trench, isolated like a guy who tries Zen.
The stars keep omens, but they're not telling. Some people say they know those omens: they're selling. They're sell outs now, sending themselves to crowds who just crow out doubt and run around and cry.
I'd see the real winter, if I'm a sky.
Maybe I'm running out of inspiration? Too much pressure on great creation as the year nears the end; we're all waiting with our fears so vacant there's nothing here but Satan deep in his lair vacation is all we spare to change. I can stare for days at this blaring binder, my cage, a reminder I don't dare to face the phases I've spent, so much time wasted that wasn't even with friends. And it's Christmas time but my Christmas rhyme isn't in right now, it's a risky time, put your chin up, cheer up, party till the year's up, if you graduate you'll go to uni now! I'm a few hairs away from a unibrow.
Went to my lessons got impressions but I wish that I was omnipresent. Wish I could spend time with all I had to time in sessions. Maybe the invention will come some day and we'll be like blimey, but I wanted that last year, life's so ironically timely. Ironically? Try satiric or whatever. I'm going off the level, pull the lever, gone from clever to forever and I know it's not sublimely done, if it just goes on while time it runs. Well what do I. *sigh* If I was a winter I could touch the sky, I chuckle with my gripe pipe and punch the light. Goodnight.