this is why I can't have nice things,
nor peace of mind these days.
I can no longer process my tragedies
if they're not in the form of a joke
or a parody,
so I am now a part-time jester.
my tears and sighs don't become
weapons anymore. Instead they turn
into colorful confetti, making others smile
and yet they still drop to the floor
still in million shredded pieces.
And then I laugh, clapping,
then look around for the nearest broom.
