Miss Grinch

One step to the left and,

     Already dead

I pull-poked the wonderings out of my head.

They slimed and they slithered

Into the pool

To recreate moments of frivolous drool

That deemed little merit

     And pushed past the cool.

 

A singular snowflake

     fell flat from the sky

Right into the eye of a girl who just cried.

Her slothenly snowman blinked one black coal eye

And whispered of stories he made on the fly.

He told her of lands that, although far away,

Would let her escape all the games that they played.

For though chess was boring

And Life was the same,

The adults and their yelling made volatile games.

 

When Christmas was over,

    marked boxes and bows,

The hole in her heart just then bloomed to a rose.

She yelled at the red-head she wished has been dead.

She stormed and she stomped and she stuttered through it

That the girl would now leave,

     with her family in tow

So the man at the door said that they could not go.

 

Winter to spring then to fall again

Welcomed the girl and her bundles of friends.

They whispered their secrets with black-gumed-curled smiles

And promised they would stay and watch for a while.

 

Then easter, then pilgrims, then presents again

And the patter was same and so were her friends.

The Game was improving, 

     now carving a groove

That eqauted each Christ-time with terrible moods.

Then as she grew older, as they knew she would

She regreeted the darkness the best that she could.

She haulted and heaved to dampen the flame,

But once it was lit it can't go out again.

 

Now I am older,

     and snowmen still smile

And whisper the secrets I hear all the while.

I open up boxes stuffed with little hearts

That swore with great fervor to tear mine apart.

They promised each year it'd be better than last

'Long as mean old Miss Grinch would let go of the past.

 

Still, poor Frosty still smiles

     for he won't melt that fast.

The ice-cold clear rivulets that drip from his hat

Hit the floor of my well-trodden room with a splat.

They, mixed with the coal dust, form a great, sickly drool

That deemed little merit

 

And pushed past my cool.

This poem is about: 
Me
My family
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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