Humor…

One mans humor,

Is another mans drama,

Is another mans dream,

Is another mans nightmare,

May be another’s horsehair,

What the hell do I know of humor?

If it rhymes and looks funny,

I include it in my poem of a bunny,

I do also love eggs that are so runny…

Lack of humor, all the above,

When I type I should maybe wear a glove,

For I do so when hot, when cold, when I am on pot,

Also do I write, sometimes in humorous fashion,

When I feel it necessary, when I feel the passion,

I also do rant as herein I seem to be doing,

Raving a part of a psychotic reaction…

So please bear with me, my heart of humor is pure,

I really try to make you laugh; I really try to use it as a cure,

My mind it does flow, like diarrhea of thought, so obscure,

Like a raging river running down the mountain, to end at my fingers,

To be typed and written, while it may be quite immature,

But in my recent state of affairs, where I am feeling most demure,

I find myself to be worse than immature, I find myself to be mostly insecure…

Not sure what this all has meant, I write like this when feeling bent,

Perhaps if I were catholic, next spring I could give it up for lent,

Since though I am Buddhist or in that direction I do bend,

I can find it in my karma to allow myself to be a best friend,

And not do I want to condescend,

But I only really want to in this poem, comprehend,

It might be easier in the very end to just transcend…

                © poppywrittED ~ 9/9/04