Humoresque

I’m crazy;
no thoughts at all.
I’m happy, and life is a joke.
I smoke, and I smoke, and I smoke;
tobacco isn’t a crime! 
I rhyme and I rhyme and I rhyme.
I lie on my bed; I scream.
I don’t know!
Daytime or nighttime? 
Dream or reality?
Music or noise?
More coffee?
What am I doing?
I’m driving.
It’s raining,
heavenly heavily.
My headlights are off.
Beer caps are valuable,
I am in love,
but I drink tea.
Only on Sundays;
only green tea.
By all means, however,
lemons drive me crazy.
Pens are amazing
for writing in notebooks, 
for charming myself with poems and pests.
I am ashamed.
I hate to be charming.
I bow, and I cry, and I bow.
I’m crazy; an egoist too.
I think about thinking,
Philosophy also
makes an impression 
on my twisted morale.
Life is funny. 
I live and I’m sad.
So much for Descartes! 
I hope I’m a sycophant.
So much for Kant!
My mind isn’t adaptive.
Psychology would say that I’m crazy.
Could I be lazy?
Or maybe Lassie?

Life is a joke. 
It is passing.