Space

If it wasn't for humour, 

I would have collapsed 

in planets

I had never been to 

or didn't want to go to. 

They say, "You're funny."

A compliment?

"Thank you! 

I take that as an accurate interpretation."

Un-funny is feeling caught up

in a rigid stiletto of customs,

where my wings wonder

if the stadium for laughter

is passively occupied

with a poorly attempted punchline.

Seriously, serious is not my aptitude.

I mean I did try cracking it like a joke

but the ball bounced out of my court.

It's like chewing neem leaves

early in the morning.

The bitterness doesn't go 

even when the leaves have fallen

into the lap of your stomach.

You hunt for some sweetness

as the lioness whose claws 

have given up on dependence.

Do I get a reserved seat 

in the Happy-go-lucky department?

They wouldn't select me,

I can't jump around with dopamine

when I want to cry

while performing a parody

on Trouble's insult comedy.

I am funny, 

but my sense of humour 

doesn't bully my tears

and my tears 

don't revolt against the citizenship

of funny bones in my system.

Coexistence is a sport they practice.

©songbriti