It Hurts to Laugh

Modern-day Thalia.

A rouse of ruckus split the air like her hair.

She always seems to slay them many a time

A bit embarrassed to admit; my crime,

my pants are tight,  her face enflames the flair.

 

Because I drink at length, she’s memory loss,

her frazzled, freckled countenance lacking bruise.

Her body outlines nascent, lucent, chartreuse,

under the lights, to her, no albatross.

 

I haven’t had a great guffaw, so long,

I keel on the ground; I gasp to flinching art.

Her wits portray a certain sadness in heart,

it may be just me lacking tune from liquor’s song.

 

A smile with a tinge of wry reveals to me

Conundrum that isn’t there, she hides no pain.

Routine is not routine, smiles through the pain

she bears the wounds but also wound up free.

 

By showing levity through degrees of laugh,

serene-like visage; comedy never wanes,

she somehow brings to mind my window panes;

escapist reminders, days in past on graph.

 

Those special times were hurtful and grand, it’s strange.

Reflect from anecdotes, silly, happy, glad.

It’s clear she meant the other way a tad:

to venture, warts and all, the laughter exchange.

Reviews

[G. Coleman]

I wish my use of vocabulary was as good as yours. I like the interesting feel your writing has aswell.