Nothing rhymes with birthday,
It's really not my fault...
I've been brainstorming since Thurthday
In my sad poetic vault,
And still NOTHING rhymes with birthday,
Though I plead and cry and moan-
I'll be sitting here 'till Earthday
With this sad pathetic poem.
Birthday, birthday, birthday--
I think it's quite absurd
That no one thought of "birthday"
When they made up rhyming words.
So when people have a birthday
All poets do is sit
And try to think of what to thay
'Cause they can't think of... it.

So it's not for lack of talent
Or money, means, or time;
This birthday poem is cra.ppy
For a lack of words that rhyme.

she opened the door
and let out an anguished cry
how long had it been left to
languish
alone, forgotten
in the darkness?

shoving everything else aside
desperate, careless
her hands closed tightly around
shaking
she rushed to yank it forward
into the light

oh no. no no no.
she held it in her hands
gently now, defeated
the need to rush had gone
she could see now
that it had long since expired

trembling, she wept
fell to her knees
and made a promise
that from this day forth
never again
would Nutella to go to waste

I'm s'posed to be writing creatively,
But I can't figure out what to write;
I'm having severe writer's block, you see,
And I can't get this thing to sound right.

Somewhere inside there's a poet in me,
But I think he's been taking a nap;
Or maybe he's gone and deserted me
'Cause my work always turns out like crap.

As hard as I try, I can't right this stuff;
I don't even know how to spell,
But maybe if I sit here long enough,
I'll too be a poet as well.

Boop boop,
Boop boop,
Now that I'm a grownup,
I su.ck at writing poems.

The monkey in the tree above me
Calls himself my brother,
And he somehow tricked my "parents" into
Having yet another.
And those four neurotic animals,
They found me so intriguing,
That they circled and surrounded me
With loud neurotic shrieking.
And when finally a "sister" came
To even out the score,
I'd already joined the monkeys
Who were dancing on the floor.

Pure white
Speckle Of black
Hint of grey
Weight and heat
In the snow

Pick it up
In your hands
Explore
Inspect
Breathe it in

Realize
Understand
What it is
You hold
In your hands

Penguin poo.p

My mom took me to school today,
Like every day I've gone,
And everything still seemed okay
'Till someone picked up Shawn.

And Todd and Sue and Ellie May,
Miss Pritchard sent them home;
I will admit it's hard to play
When you've been left alone.

So one by one they left the room,
And only some came back;
There were just ten of us by noon
And even less by snack.

I'm not sure when they called my name,
But one thing was for sure;
I wasn't going to fall the same
Fate as my friends before.

I bolted past the office staff
Who'd come to seal my doom...
They promised me a toy giraffe
If I'd come in the room.

They pointed to a purple chair
And told me to sit down;
They poked their fingers at my hair,
Discussed me with a frown.

Still one of them was very nice,
If only I had known:
They'd searched my head for signs of LIFE
And had to send me home.

Now though I recently turned five
And learned my phonics last,
I could've told them I'm alive...
If only they had asked!

My toes are short and stubby
They wiggle all about
They're getting kind of chubby
And I want to rip them out.
But Mommy wouldn't like it
(Though Daddy wouldn't care)
If blood got on the carpet,
So I think I'll leave them there.

Dear Mrs. Maurer,
Please don't be put out
When we sit and stare
Like a bunch of dead trout,
And half of us sleep
(Though some pay attention),
And some of us do things
I won't even mention--
When we get distracted,
Please do understand,
It isn't yourself
Or the lesson you planned,
But rather our state
On those days of the week,
And when we have your class
We're unable to speak
Because Mondays are Mondays
And thinking's a chore,
Wednesdays our feet are
Halfway through the door,
Fridays we're asking,
"Our weekend starts when??"
And Monday the cycle
Starts over again.

So dear Mrs. Maurer,
Your class is not boring;
Your stories and lectures
Do not cause the snoring.
Your challenge is this as
We come to this junction:
Find a day of the week
When your students can function.

A fartle is a little fa.rt,
A tiny tu.shy teaser.
A puff of air, a piece of art,
An itsy sphincter sneezer.

He was sitting in the moonlight,
Tears running down his face,
Wond'ring if he'd ever find
A girl to take her place.

And as he sat there crying,
Alone in pouring rain,
He briefly saw her face and was
Run over by a train.

She was sitting in the corner,
Staring into space,
Hoping, wishing, dreaming,
With a grimace on her face.

She sat there with her daydream,
Her dreams of being lusted,
And as she thought of her true love
She spontaneously combusted.

Yes, they'd loved each other
It wasn't very shrewd
To bottle their emotions up
Before their bodies spewed.

So anyways there was this guy and this girl
And the guy was talking
To the girl about the chicken
Problem
And it really didn't make the girl feel
Any better
And then so they were talking
And
All of a sudden
There was this meteor
Except it wasn't really
A meteor
But since they were on hallucinogenic drugs
They thought it was a meteor
When it was really
Her dad.

So they started screaming and ran
Away from the meteor that was
Her dad
And the dad
Was all perplexed because they ran
From him so he figured that maybe
Maybe
There was something he didn't know
And of course
There was something he didn't know
In fact a lot
He didn't know
About science, arithmetic, geography
Love
But specifically about his daughter
So he figured that maybe
Maybe
They were going to elope
So he called after them,
"You can't elope!"
And they shot back
With an insult for the meteor
"You watermelon!"
And the dad just sat and cried
Cried and cried
Because
There comes a time when your
Children
Grow up
And elope
And use hallucinogenic drugs
And call you a watermelon
And run
Away.

I just wrote a Constitution
Amendment One says no pollution
Three and Four ban prostitution
The penalty's electrocution
The people cry for retribution
I can't think of a solution

Scre.w those anti-federalists
I hope they develop monster cysts
And writhe and scream and slash their wrists
I'll pound their face in with my fists
They'll be sorry they made me pis.sed

These stupid states won't ratify
This document; I don't know why
I bite my lip and want to cry
I don't know why I even try
I'll mash them into pretty pie
I hope they die and die and die

So sign this pretty pretty please
I'll kiss your feet and shine your knees
But only if each state agrees
To sign this hodgepodge of decrees
Excuse me now, I have to sneeze

And if I built a building,
I'd build it out of bugs.
Spiders, bees, and scorpions,
And seeping, slimy slugs.
Its floors would crunch and splatter,
Its ceilings would drip down;
Floors that hide up in your pants
And buzzing all around.
My building would be creepy,
Decrepit, lacking health;
And though I do not care for bugs
I'd have it to myself.

Tomato:
Big, juicy, red
INSANE!
Sneaks up upon unsuspecting
Unreliable
MATH TUTORS!
A terrible fight ensues!
Tomato or tutor?
Tutor or tomato?
Tomato knows no math.
Tutor has no seeds.
A standoff.
Tutor and tomato growl menacingly,
Circling one another
Like two pieces of meat
On a microwave turntable.
Suddenly, their rhythmic dance of Hate
Is broken
By the rhythmic sound of incoming
Imminent
Inescapable
Doom.
Tutor and tomato are trampled
Like a TV dinner
On the freeway.