Dear Santa,
I know that Christmas time is here, a time we hold our loved ones near. So what I say I will say clear, and say I will sinciere. I'm not wishing the redemption of my life's past year, though Christmas magic beckons that my wish is written here:
I wish for our past events to stay behind, not forgotten; recognized. Not remembered, but reminescent, in our subtle minds. And the influencial circumstances conjuring these alibies, Only present as an omen to the lives we live. Rather than the the solemn judgement we so freely pass, may we follow freedom's passage, placing judgement last.
I say this for those who have love, dissapointment, and regret. For the selfish ways of showing how we live beyond our debt: our intentions at the time, per say, but half of what's been met, are children of emotion's weighty feeling on our chest. Instead of take a breath, weazing under stress, we flush our precious atmosphere and weep a little less.
Wishing simply of potential in our every lives, emotion's tether sliced forever, succulent release; bound no longer by what's viewed, yet impossible to see, as logical irrelevance in what our life should mean.
I know that Christmas time is here, a time we hold our loved ones near. So what I say I will say clear, and say I will sinciere. I'm not wishing the redemption of my life's past year, though Christmas magic beckons that my wish is written here:
I wish for our past events to stay behind, not forgotten; recognized. Not remembered, but reminescent, in our subtle minds. And the influencial circumstances conjuring these alibies, Only present as an omen to the lives we live. Rather than the the solemn judgement we so freely pass, may we follow freedom's passage, placing judgement last.
I say this for those who have love, dissapointment, and regret. For the selfish ways of showing how we live beyond our debt: our intentions at the time, per say, but half of what's been met, are children of emotion's weighty feeling on our chest. Instead of take a breath, weazing under stress, we flush our precious atmosphere and weep a little less.
Wishing simply of potential in our every lives, emotion's tether sliced forever, succulent release; bound no longer by what's viewed, yet impossible to see, as logical irrelevance in what our life should mean.
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