‘twas the month before Christmas,
And all through the land,
The creatures were whispering,
Isn’t it grand.
Santa’s looking, to pull on his sleigh,
New animals, cos reindeer are so passé.
Besides, traditional creatures of yore,
Aren’t fast enough
To avoid planes or the stray bullet or four.
What we need are creatures who
Are black like the night,
Swift on their feet, and no noses of light.
And if on the naughty list your name should appear,
A flash of sharp fangs, and on your ass there will be,
A small reminder that 2013 better be a good year.
The kiddos all decided to give it a go,
We are fast and we’ll help Santa with his ho ho ho,
Delivering presents and the occasional nip
To the deserving on Christmas Eve’s midnight trip.
So last Friday they made a quick trip to the North Pole –
Santa said yes, gladly, you’ll all fit the role,
And your coats are perfect for high altitude cold.
But there’s one little problem we have with the big boy,
He has to take off that little jingly toy
On his tail because, you know, we are going stealth.
But Aleksei stood firm, that toy is my wealth.
Given to me by my very own boy.
I’ll not part with it, not even for this ride
I’ll stay home on Christmas Eve, and lay down beside
Him and be petted, my head in his lap
And keep him safe while you two wander the sky.
So they left the North Pole,
Kiska and Devka with tokens of their upcoming flight.
Aleksei with none, but still his tail stood tall,
To know that he got his human and his human had him,
To snuggle all night, the best Christmas present of all.
I hate it when people say that bipolar people tend to be creative and gifted, and well, special. We aren’t – we’re just people, each with our own strengths and flaws, just like everyone else. Treating us as special means treating us as less than human. Certainly different from everyone else. I’d rather be embedded in the rich tapestry that consists of everybody’s joys and wonders and annoyances and strengths. It’s beautiful there.
That said, poetry is something that only exists for me when I am manic – which I find really annoying on principle. I’ve lost the capability to write the good stuff ever since I’ve been managing my mania. All I’ve got left is some scraps like above. I find this a perfectly acceptable trade off – I’d rather be stable and walking happy dogs in the park every day, than having mood swings and writing poetry while the dogs get stuck at home for two or three weeks. Real life is better.