DEEMBER December is a cold month. So cold. So incomplete. A time when nature dies, Along with parts of me. December is a month of dreary days. Lit up with lights to mask the pain. Holiday spirit. Just an excuse to drink. Food, family, friends. It's all just more fuel to think. I grew up to understand the Grinch. Whose heart became so small. And although these lights do warm me, I want to crush them all. December is a month of lies and of deceit. It's not at all about spirit, rather a receipt. I'd prefer sit alone. A fireplace and a book. Than sit along beside others, to have my heart led astray by some crook.