Christmas in the hood

This is about the destructive consequences of addiction.

Christmas In The Hood

By Shawn P Cassidy

Twas the night before Christmas, deep in the hood,

where the laughter was loud and the music was good.

People were dancing, the smoke drifting high,

a holiday heartbeat beneath a cracked sky.

Sistas were moving with rhythm and grace,

brothas were vibing, forgetting their place.

The night felt alive, like a moment redeemed,

a brief little pocket where hope almost gleamed.

Then came a knock--slow, heavy, and cold

a presence that didn’t belong in the fold.

Not Santa from stories or sleighs in the snow,

but a figure of shadow with a sinister glow.

His hat held a feather, his smile held deceit,

his footsteps were smooth, his voice low and sweet.

He carried no toys, no joy to restore

just a sack full of poison disguised as rapport.

He wasn’t Saint Nick with a heart full of cheer,

he was the Ghost of Temptation that prowls every year.

A mythic collector of sorrow and need,

a peddler of hunger, a prophet of greed.

He offered his “gifts” with a whispering grin,

each one a doorway that drags you within.

Chains of addiction wrapped tight like a spell,

a modern-day slavery crafted too well.

He fed on the hopeless, the lost, and the worn,

on dreams left to die and on futures unborn.

A demon in velvet, a king of the night,

turning Christmas to chaos beneath dying light.

And as he faded on back into the dark of the room,

leaving silence behind and everything gloom.

He whispered a curse with a grin sharp and bright:

“Merry Christmas to all… and to all a long night.”

© 2026 Shawn P. Cassidy. All rights reserved.