Hello, where have you been? 

Where have you sinned? 

Dear Mona,

 Dear Mon(Monet), 

I'm so sorry, embarrassed, and ashamed of myself, for not being there for you in your most trying and overwhelming sadness. It truly hurt me like an incredible empath to see you hurt, I felt so helpless, and weak, for I hate death, especially when we can't help those whom we never knew needed help, my dad committed suicide on New Year's Eve, and when Old Lang Syne plays I weep inside, and every year it comes and I've grown to despise it. I know, Mona, you are the greatest loving mother in the world-nonpareil, you must know this, you must know things happen in this life that we have no control over, I know you cry and your sorrow and you suffer during these Holidays, it's almost like living in Hell. Remember, I always think of you during these Holidays, and I remember how incredibly funny you always are. That makes me smile.

I love you to the end of this world, 

Always remember that, 

God bless, 

Tim

Addendum: Mona, the gift was too much, 

I cried like a baby. I did. 

Worry

 

Worry is nothing but an empty room

filled with corrupted ghosts.

 

I awoke a thousand times to go back

to sleep just once,

Measurement of Pain

This true tale begins long ago,

  When France's Louis XV reigned as King;

A tyrant, grief he bestowed,

  Upon the peasants, poverty he flings.

A mad man, named Robert Francois Damien,

  Sought to end this misery,

A knife he did wield, plunged into the King's abdomen,

  His mark slighted, yet unfortunate his gallantry.

For the monarch sentenced far more pain

  Than the fugleman or madman

Has endured, or human eyes have seen,

  As an eyewitness wrote the agony tale's assassin.

That morn the madman was pierced with hot forceps,

  The executors poured boiling oil upon his wounds,

And followed the King's precepts,

  Strident screams matched that of a wolf to a moon.

His limbs were slashed off one by one

  By four wild horses in the Place de Greve;

As witnessing eyes did not shun

  Yet, awed in disbelief.

Two stallions whipped to their deaths

  For reprieve of vengeance,

Hours were sought for two fresh colt's breath

  To agonize death's resurgence.

Joviality entered the crowd

  Who applauded this torturous death,

Eyes smirked in scowl,

  His hair whitened as nine hours bequeath.

A King's wish and nothing less,

  Triumphantly his power carried out,

His pawns faithfully bliss,

  Kill, with little refrain of doubt.

Bah Humbug

 

You do know I despise December, I hate 

the phony charade of some birthday of 

some 2000-year-old invalid tale; cursed 

this curmudgeonly game of giving or give not, 

this prequel of the paganistic ritual to Jesus, and

yet all the baubles, tinsel, and mistletoe in this world

won't glorify my disdain for Christmas, I have withstood 

the great tidings of puppetry, from every bough, tree, and

wreath that symbolizes this grand pretense only espouses 

the obstinate loathe, moreover the mockery of lucid lights

upon each home only further scourges this contempt, this

epochal yuletide of the meek whose pecuniary homage to a

smattering myth who takes their prayer bribes and yet still

swipes their loved ones year after year without recompense 

or notice of hypocrisy, cups of good cheer will numb any 

reasoning, and more prayer to the Ghost who never answers

anyone or any cause, for logic, is an indispensable precept and

believers arguably revoke any deception other than their own

dogma, never refute a fool because he may be the one that buries 

you in that crowded cemetery, I truly enjoy the happiness that

circumvent the peaceful tidings of laughter and love, yet, I see

human touch and frailty around every Christmas tree, hark, 

for I've seen the disappointment and sadness of Christmas, 

and the shame upon every wretched Scrooge who’s looted from 

the helpless and weak; so, my friends have your Holidays and 

wait for the spirit to leave you.