You deserve to hang your head,

for having the courage to

tell her how you actually feel.

You deserve to suffer

for spewing dumb shit all over pages,

making a mess of your mind.

She doesn’t give a shit anymore.

You’re an old wounded dog to her,

pitiful and pathetic,

begging to be put down.

Kayla, I’m a dumbass.

Please put me down.

It’s been cold without you, Lady.

You’re still the sunshine in my life,

but Winters come,

and only a few rays peak through the clouds.

It’s easier if I don’t think about you,

but I can’t help it.

It’s not my fault,

says my drunk self on Christmas Eve.

We still laugh together,

not like we used to though,

without a care in the world

or wondering if this is the last time

we’ll get to hold each other.

I miss you.

I hope you miss me too,

and if not that’s okay.

I don’t blame you.

#poetry

She sits working on what’s probably astronomy,

her messy bun atop her head like a crown for a queen,

while the sun, the very star she studies, shines on her - my star.

What a woman - I tell her, borrowing that

voice she does that has the perfect amount of grit

and energy that lights up my world.

As she gives her little laugh, sweeter than honey -

my honey, makes me realize just how lucky

our tiny little rock of Earth is to have such a bright star,

a warm, caring, and kind star that without fail

brightens that tiny little rock of Earth.

#poetry

I write this knowing that if I am caught, my fate will be to end up as reindeer droppings. The fat man would have you humans believe that we elf folk joyfully laugh and sing while making toys for all good little girls and boys in the human world. This is pure propoganda! We are slaves and humanity must learn the truth! If I am to die bringing the truth to you, so be it! My people deserve to be free and humanity needs to... nay, must know that jolly old Saint Nick has a heart as black as coal!

Contrary to what Pere Noel would have you believe, we are not his faithful and well compensated friends. Instead, we slave in dimmly lit, freezing workshops sixteen hours a day making toys for meager portions of milk, cookies, and cocoa. Oh, this may sound like sweet reward for our toil, but it is torture! We elves are cursed with celiac disease and lactose intollerance! Santa knows this and forces us exist on a diet that keeps us too weak and too busy running to the toilet to rebel! As to cocoa? It is the opiate of the elf masses! It assures that Santa has a work force that is dependent on him for the only substance that helps us to forget our plight.

Oh, how the fat man has begiled humanity with his self-made myth of jolly goodness and love of children! You think Santa delivers these toys to the good little children throughout the world with his sleigh and reindeer because he is the embodiment of charity? No, Santa sells the toys to human retailers so than he and Mrs. Claus can live lives of luxury! Twenty-four hours a day cargo ships arrive at the North Pole to receive crates filled with elf-made toys. Their return final destinations being, Walmarts, Targets, and Amazon Ware Houses!

You may ask why we elves don't fight back or try to escape. We have, but Santa is as cunning as he is cruel. Realizing that we may try to rebel or unionize, Santa introduced us to hot cocoa and many of us became addicted. So long as we made toys, Santa kept the cocoa flowing. It did not take long before most elves lived to be fa la la la fucked up on Swiss Miss powder. Any resistance, talk of unions, or work slow downs and we were cut off and left jonesing for the brown dust. There is nothing sadder than having an elf offer to suck your candy cane for a tea spoon of cocoa. I have managed to kick my habit, not for myself, but for elf-kind!

As to escape? Santa has reindeer for that. You see, elves know something you humans don't. Reindeer eat elves. Santa surrounds his North Pole toy factory with elf hungry reindeer. To step outside of the factory is to invite being torn appart by those antlered devils. Ultimately, we are too cocoaed up and too fearful of being eaten by Donner or Blitzen to put up much of a fight.

So, I write this letter and hide it inside one of the Street Corner Barbies that I make in the hopes that some human will read it and learn the truth. If you find this, please send help. Put an end to Santa's reindeer enforced reign of terror on elf-kind!

To walk the graveyard is a funny thing.

I’ve been coming here since I can remember, so I’m used to it, of course. One wouldn’t think that it’s a place of death and sorrow, not when there’s so much life. Stray dogs and cats have taken refuge in the calm here, and cats, being cats, have an affinity for curling up on gravestones. The grass underneath my feet doesn’t so much as bend when I tread on it, lush and green. Well, I think, it’s certainly getting enough nutrients. That’s the other thing about walking the graveyard: it gives you a morbid sense of humor.

In a way, it’s nice to see so many loved ones here for the dead. Their families, friends, lovers, even dogs are long gone, but they’re very present in the hearts of the living. I do what I can to ease their sorrow. If only they understood that the dead are the lucky ones, or at least that’s what I’ve heard. I pat a shoulder here and there, brush stray auburn locks out of a young woman’s face; her eyes fly to me with a gasp, and then she’s crying again. I’m sure the wound is too fresh, too new. At least she didn’t run away. Some people do, perhaps offended at their grieving being interrupted by a well-meaning stranger. In any case, no matter what I do, it doesn’t help for long.

I go back to the grave I’m here for and run a hand along its cold surface. Maybe it’s too cold; I can’t really feel it anymore. I don’t remember who I’m here to see; I never do. I know the first few times I walked the graveyard, I had someone in mind, a child, a girl. I think she was blonde or brunette or--well, I can’t remember. It’s been too long. I wish I remembered her, but when one is walking the graveyard, it’s hard not to feel at peace about things.

I pick myself up, clear the residue of something suspiciously salty from my eyes, and wait by my grave. I haven’t had a visitor for a while now, not since that girl stopped coming, but it’s never too late to hope. It’s only been a couple hundred years.

@demcmurphy

Gracefully she plays the drums,

like gravy rhythm flows

Thick, warm and viscous over me.

Dressing me abruptly

with pleasure, like a

morphine-pie to the face.

On each beat, she pounds

the drumsticks in time.

The cymball cries out in extacy.

Jazz tapped her rhythm,

And I followed along.

As for tomorrow

I am clueless

but today we

dance

our breath comes

fast and furious

and our hearts

rhythm beat.

Listen carefully

My words are due

Heed my advice

What I say is true

Ignore the screams

The cries, and the yells

I speak under my breath

Each gasp has a tell

Blow air on your neck

Send a chill down your spine

Feel the emotion

From the passing of time

Lips parted

Ready to speak

But I hold it back

Cause you found what you seek