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“Be good,
Go to bed early” she said.
My mother,
Who,
At the time
Was a thirty-five year old
Beautiful woman
With unrivaled
Mocha-toned skin
And jet-black
Vitreous locks
That stood tall,
Oh, so very tall
As was the fashion of the early nineties.
She sat there upon a white chair
Around a white table, opposite my gran,
Drinking white wine, watching and waiting
For my brother or I to make a move,
To say a word, any word.
We were a little slow back then,
As you can tell
But, we wondered.
We wondered, why?
Why did we have to go to bed?
I wanted to see the big fat man
In the big fat red suit
With a big fat brown bag
Of toys.
Yes, it was Christmas.
What a joyous holiday
Based on the selfless act of giving.
******** that
I wanted presents
I loved this holiday because
Of the sole fact that
That I never had to beg or plead
To get what I wanted
All I had to do was write a letter
Using my chicken scratch,
Barely being able to spell anything
Let alone what I wanted
And Send it in to the North Pole.
I always wondered why he lived in the North Pole.
Anyway, I stood there in my one-piece Footed pajamas.
You know
The ones with the pleather white bottoms
Designed in a way that
When you slide across the carpet
You conducted enough
Electromagnetic energy
To shock anyone
By a single touch.
Those were ******** awesome.
They were awesome because
You could imagine yourself to be anything you dreamt of
A ninja, an astronaut, a knight,
You could even imagine being an ice-skater,
The way you glide across the carpet.
The imaginative possibilities were
Unlimited, limitless. Unless,
You actually tried to walk on ice
Which then
You would most likely
Fall on your a**
Something
I unfortunately undertook
But that
Is a whole other story.
Like I said, we wondered
But, only did we wonder.
Never asking what was on our minds
We marched up the solid
Grey stairs, shocking each other as
We went
Without a moment of rebellion
But, with a plan.
A plan, like secret agents
To sneak back down those
Soft grey stairs
Only To spy on the one man
That just gave.
And what a plan that turned out to be!
As we crept upon our tiny tippy toes
Stopping mid way to look from a distance
From the stairs
We saw a figure in the shape
Of that
Thirty-five year old
Beautiful woman
With unrivaled
Mocha-toned skin
And jet black vitreous locks
That stood tall.
Which was the opposite
Of the two children
That stood upon the stairs
very short,
In awe because
Too soon did we learn that Santa
Was a woman that we’ve come
To call, “mom”.
What the ********?
A thought, that
I would have now
Equivalent to my
Thoughts back then.
And to answer my previous thought about
The big fat man
In the big fat red suit
With the big far brown bag.
He
Never lived in the North Pole
In fact,
He
Never lived at all
For he,
Never
Actually
Existed.
What the ********?
- Title: What the fuck...?
- Artist: Agni
- Description: When I found-out that Santa was not real.
- Date: 09/17/2008
- Tags: santa christmas funny
- Report Post
Comments (5 Comments)
- NakedJack - 12/17/2008
- Its more like a story that you broke up into a bunch of lines. A descriptive piece. I'll be damned if its not written well though and its not a love poems. 5/5
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- UNKNOW dude ii - 10/05/2008
- santas not real
- Report As Spam
- cadryon - 10/05/2008
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wtf ? santa's not real?
nice poem - Report As Spam
- xtinkkx - 09/17/2008
- huh the title startled me but that is a very nice poem smile
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- The Love of Money - 09/17/2008
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This is better than a lot of the poetry on here. It bugs me when people curse all the time, but I think you did it artfully.
And WHAT DO YOU MEAN SANTA ISN'T REAL? - Report As Spam