Thinking back on days long dead,
Fears like ghosts inside my head
Thought I’d buried long ago,
Guess I’ll never let them go.
Rejected by this holiday,
a stocking stuffed with things to say
Embarrassing to family friends,
Seasons beatings, we pretend.

You plugged me in to shut me down,
hid behind a wall of sound
Brought me out to show your friends,
Sad excuses in the end.
Misfit toys for girls and boys,
sons and daughters, sinners, saints
Cuts with unserrated knives,
scars we covered up with paint

But something’s missing, can’t you see?
I’ve formed a black reality
Calamity of heart and soul,
The remnants of the story told.
Now mother cries alone, it’s true,
a poison pen, a child she knew
She told me I was such a joy,
not the same as other boys.

My toys were mischief, pet diseases,
days of wrath, I tried to seize.
They or them or he or we,
A missing link you could not see.
You know the kind, that child in time,
Ignoring people, chasing rhymes…
A glitch inside the matrix, yes!
Wicked things, he can’t confess.

But father never knew the truth,
in denial, pin-striped suit.
And fate doth call as pipers play,
to lead the misfit kids away.
Now, mother cries again; it seems,
I hear her sobbing in her dreams…
Running through my mind, I shout,
trying in vain to drown her out.

And father hides in masks of hope,
with doctor’s notes and anecdotes.
My little bus of furry friends
has pulled up to my home again.
Misfit toys for girls and boys,
distractions in between the noise.
Stifled words and stuttered voice,
The universe has made its choice.

On the bus, it’s still the same,
misfits hitting, misfits, hit…
Mocking, poking, make it stop,
The mark is made, the fuse is lit.
Spitting curses, reckless verses,
pain incarnate, hurt abounds…
Lovers kept in plastic bags,
safe inside the lost and found.

And Santa Claus is stealthy,
Like a cat, he steals the show
Walking over bodies,
eating cookies on the go.
Laughing like a madman,
jingle jangle on the roof…
Promising you perfect things
without a single ounce of proof.

The Christmas tree is skeletal,
See the decorations fade.
Those days of dreamscape innocence,
stains left where the wreath was laid.
Seems your ticket to Elysium
was a hollow point inside a gun…
A trigger never pulled, thank God
A choice, when all was said and done.

He’s a good boy now, a good girl then,
A harbinger of where and when.
You placed him in his favorite chair
Pretending he was king…
They gathered round, removed his crown,
Blow out your candle, make a wish
Happy birthday, Christmas Eve,
Listen as your family sings

Christmas child, precious gift,
another toy to sort and sift…
Like wheat, like dust, like fire and ice,
like hands we raise, or heels we lift.
Christmas child, shooting star,
appeared a spoke inside a wheel…
No heart to feel, no will to live,
a wealth of scars to be revealed.

Like muddy shoes across the floor,
an open door, a touch too soon.
For knowledge is an evil fuck,
a millstone round the neck and such…
It follows like a red-hot brand,
seared into a fractured mind.
A friend of mine who’s best be gone,
a hero’s journey left behind.

And that’s not all,
There’s one more thing,
a black advance, a shadowed thing…
He reigns inside the great divide,
a killing floor where demons sing
Misfits all, girls and boys,
a renaissance of desperate youth….
History repeating as
acceptance buries truth.

No man is called an island,
Not my words, I’m sure you knew.
Yet my domain is much the same,
hoarding faith, I misconstrue.
My friends are shadows of myself,
dwelling in a crowded mind…
Perfect imperfections,
enemies of the friendly kind.

And Christmas is another word
for something to believe…
A purchase for a guilty conscience,
a chance to be deceived.
A measure for a misfit mind,
an island in the sky…
An answer to somebody’s prayer,
Another question why.

TM DiSarro
©2025 TM DiSarro / MindScapes Publishing

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