Pardon My Lame Humor
Dear 2024,
I hope this poetic vow
wouldn’t be shunned,
as I block negativity
from my phone,
like my bitter exes.
And forgive my sense
of humor that
resembles sour grapes,
like a dash of salt
and pepper sprinkled
on top of old drapes.
Perhaps, as this
year bids adieu,
I’ll find the right
ingredient to concoct
sparkling wine infused
with giggles that
age like
chucklesome limericks,
as I fine-tune the
empty spaces
of my scribbled
pages with hilarity.
I’ll learn to laugh a
little louder and hope
the ebb of every
comical tale can flow.
Maybe a stricter
chocolate diet would
help me see the
sweeter side of
powdered comedians,
sharpening my wit
as endorphins enhance
my ability to spot
the depth of puns
punctuated
with bizarre tones.
And as December rain
drizzles in symphony
of the darkness
my quill flaunts,
pardon these
peculiar metaphors,
I’ll raise a glass
of crocodile tears,
a toast for
more concise poetry,
and faces I’ve phased,
that I’ll no longer
vent about in vain verses.
Cheers to the
festival lights
on wheel of laughter,
may the florescence
forever flicker as
souvenirs of amusement.
I’ll dance into the
rising sun of a new year,
in an odyssey adorned
with shimmering dreams
embalmed in
tickling mint leaves.
Copyright © Ink Empress | Year Posted 2023
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