• About the Author
  • The Thorns Series
  • Standalone Novels
  • Horror Worth Watching
  • Contact

Amanda M. Blake

~ Of fairy tales and tentacles

Amanda M. Blake

Tag Archives: ennui

Missing Christmas

04 Tuesday Dec 2018

Posted by amandamblake in Poetry

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

christmas, ennui, lyrics, not a poet, poem, songwriting

photo of green leaf plant near pink paint wall

Photo by Maria Tyutina on Pexels.com

I don’t have seasonal affective disorder. I actually experience the reverse, my mood becoming measurably better when it’s darker and colder outside and worse when it gets warm and bright.

But something happens to Christmas as you grow up, and it’s something that made the holidays difficult for roughly the last ten years. Both the spiritual and the secular sides suffered. In fact, it’s only just this year that I kind of got back into the spirit. I put up most of the Christmas decorations at home. At work, I’m decorating my cubicle in a Nightmare Before Christmas theme, which was a spontaneous decision that I’m really enjoying. I’m a Halloween-all-year kind of girl, so it fits my personality.

Christmas music is the one thing that’s been a constant through the ennui. With music on my mind, I wrote down a lot of these feelings about Christmas that people just don’t seem to talk about, especially when it comes to singletons and people who aren’t churchgoers. Sure, sometimes I feel like the Grinch (don’t most of us grow up into the Grinch?), but really, I’m more sad than angry. However, I think letting go of what Christmas used to be has helped me enjoy it in my new ways.

MISSING CHRISTMAS

As a child, I saw Santa through the open bedroom door
Sick with excitement at what morning had in store
I saw in him in the darkness, which fueled my belief
Of magical reindeer who come when you sleep

Half-eaten carrots and hoofprints on snow
Once you spot the lies they only start to grow
When magic becomes just another sleight of hand
One starts to wonder where Christmas should stand

The stories repeat so often, I know them by heart.
Growing up without children, I’ve no longer a part
Meaningless, meaning less every year
And now Christmas seems like every other part of the year, I fear…

The moment I stopped looking for Christmas
Was the same time the magic died
Its epitaph written in my attic-lost tree
I mourn for the death of a magical time

I love buying gifts for my family and friends
Receiving doesn’t matter much after it ends
The truth is I lost Christmas a long time ago.
I’ve struggled to find it again, but I know…

That feasts, friends, and families simply don’t
Make the time any more magical, the season just won’t
Reach as far inside of me as it did once before
When magic and miracles brought hope to my door

Half-eaten carrots and hoofprints on snow
Once you spot the lies they only start to grow
When magic becomes just another sleight of hand
One starts to wonder where Christmas should stand.

Sleepwalker

15 Wednesday Aug 2018

Posted by amandamblake in Music, Poetry

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

anthony bourdain, depression, ennui, lyrics, not a poet, songwriting, suicide

black and white gray grey smooth

Photo by rawpixel.com on Pexels.com

I wrote this on the same day as “Music Box” and was strongly influenced by Anthony Bourdain’s death for both.

“Sleepwalker” feels closer to the soft alt sound of Svrcina and Fleurie to me, but harsh it a little and you get Christina Perri, I think.

SLEEPWALKER

Give you all my time.
Give you heart and soul
My attention on the line
Every part and every whole

My last stitch of spirit
Until tapestry unwinds
Threads fringe and split
Wrap into the ties that bind

Chorus:
Running in place, sinking under high tide
Masks on my face, I’m living inside
Making up stories and worlds in my head
Because the world’s running wild and hard
And I’d rather be in my world instead
I’m never present, always away
Go where I’m sent, do whatever they say
They call me sleepwalker, the day’s living dead
Because the world’s running wild and hard
And I’d rather be in my world instead.

Go to bed, sleep awake
Mornings wake up weary
I offer the devil my soul to take
But pay the piper too dearly.

Waiting between work
Life’s a series of lines
Living dark to dark
Time’s slow but life flies.

Chorus

Bridge:
We fill ourselves empty, health ourselves sick
Tear out foundations, brick by dead brick
Swear on our tomes we’ve not even read
Unable to speak until we have bled.
We give up our freedom, small sacrifice
We give up our virtues for taste of a vice
Running around without any heads
We lie on the train tracks, making our beds.

Chorus

Enter your email address to follow this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.

NOW AVAILABLE

WHERE IT ALL BEGINS

TINGLE YOUR SPINE

What I Write About

  • A Few Thoughts
  • Movie Reviews
  • Music
  • Novels
  • Poetry
  • Series
  • Soundtracks
  • Television
  • This Land
  • Thorns
  • Uncategorized
  • Writing

Archives

  • January 2021
  • December 2020
  • October 2020
  • September 2020
  • August 2020
  • July 2020
  • June 2020
  • May 2020
  • April 2020
  • March 2020
  • January 2020
  • December 2019
  • November 2019
  • October 2019
  • September 2019
  • August 2019
  • July 2019
  • June 2019
  • May 2019
  • April 2019
  • March 2019
  • February 2019
  • January 2019
  • December 2018
  • November 2018
  • October 2018
  • September 2018
  • August 2018
  • July 2018
  • June 2018
  • May 2018
  • April 2018
  • March 2018
  • February 2018
  • January 2018
  • December 2017
  • October 2017
  • May 2017
  • April 2017
  • March 2017
  • February 2017
  • January 2017

Website Built with WordPress.com.

Cancel