"funniness" poems
Y'know what's funny?
Me.
I'm funny.
But not funny enough to draw a crowd.
Not funny enough for it to define my personality.
Not funny enough to compensate for my awkwardness.
Or my body.
Or my beauty . . . or lack thereof.
Not funny enough to go places because of my funniness.
Not funny enough to make other funny friends.
Yeah, I'm funny . . . funny looking!
See? That's my funny joke.
But not funny enough.
Aug 21, 2010
Aug 21, 2010 at 11:30 AM UTC
He is funny. But we can see our differences.
I am funny, sort of. But,
somehow our funniness doesn't match.
he is kind, well behaved, everyone likes him.
But I don't know how I feel about him.
He is indeed interesting and exciting, fascinating.
But, I could not just let go and yet he is beyond my reach.
I am weird, maybe, and not in the good way.
Aug 25, 2016
Aug 25, 2016 at 6:36 AM UTC
I am giving up on the thought that you will ever give me as much time as I give you honor.
Every time I try to grow a flower, you hand me a bomb.
The world is a dark place, and I am a mere candle, trying to hold it together in the wind.
Because it rips out my heart to hear you grow the courage to say those words to a girl, when you would never even notice all the love in my eyes.
And people forget how much love can hurt until that familiar hand comes to slap them again.
You ripped me up from the ground, roots and all exposed, then snipped them with scissors without a second thought.
I am tired of making myself whole, only to hand you the knife for you to slice me open.
It is exhausting, and fruitless, and soul-aching to hold so much for someone who would never hold you again.
And him, with his bright love and strong-holding mind, loved me from afar only to drop me when I gave in.
And him, with his unexpected arrival in my life, so aware of our wavelength, yet choosing to deny.
And him, with his tender funniness and joy, brought me to his bedroom, then kicked me out of his door.
And him, with his dark eyes and ridiculous smile, almost saved me, just to drown me right after.
I am tired of giving myself to people who cry for me, only to push me away as though I forced myself on them.
And you, you are the worst of them all, my never-ending crucifixion who I could never regret.
On a gloomy Sunday, when everything falls apart, including myself, all I want is you next to me, but all I want is you gone.
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 4:31 PM UTC