Mar 16
I love, I love, I love poetry
more than acting, more than making films.
your ego reeks of ****
because you keep looking at me like that.
your ego reeks of ****
because it’s your favorite smell.
your ego reeks of ****
because my ego reeks of ****.
we are just mirrors,
wreaking of ****,
washing, cleansing,
but the smell never goes away.
the **** you love
is the **** I used to love when I was a kid.
all trends are patterns
repeating, repeating, repeating.
I love, I love, I love poetry,
and it reeks of ****.
so hard to clean,
but **** isn’t what makes me sick.
it’s the thought of it
being like that forever.
my friend once told me:
if it smells weird, if it smells good—
the smell only lasts for ten seconds.
so even though your breath reeks of ****,
that will change.
oh, you thought I was finished?
we no longer smell of ****.
we smell of the best soaps and shampoos
products available in our area.
(that happens to be Safeguard—
this is not sponsored,
but I always wanted a sponsorship.)
this is a poem, by the way.
stream of consciousness,
dictated through my voice,
since I forgot about this feature.
the ego does not smell like ****—
the ego has no smell.
what smells is your breath,
and that shall pass.
all shall pass.
as I pass on the baton
to the next muse of my inspiration,
I want to say:
your ego no longer reeks of ****.
but if it does, just wait ten minutes.
oh, you thought I was joking?
one more thought:
your ego reeks of ****
because your ego exists.
delete.
oops.
not sure if I’m using this properly.
anyway, I’m not going to edit this poem.
your ego smells like ****
because I made it smell like ****.
your ego can smell good if it wants—
like daffodils, cinnamon rolls,
whatever your imagination comes up with.
but I’m too tired to think
of what smells good besides soap.
so I guess that’s my favorite.
as spoken once:
roses really smell like boo-boo
—Andre 3000, OutKast.
once we realize
everybody’s ego reeks of ****,
we also realize
we can make our ego smell like soap.
and that is the end of the poem
(for now)
unless I come up with something else.
this is stream of consciousness—
this is my poetry collection—
and yes,
I’m a poet writing about a poet
writing poems about ****.
that’s not the point.
the point is:
if your ego smells like ****,
you have a lot of life to live—
for better or worse.
and my ego reeks of ****
the more I write this poem,
but it won’t
once I finish it.
so as I bid you farewell,
I say:
I am no Shakespeare.
I am no Oscar Wilde.
I am Andy Denson.
The next great poet of the world.
And even if I’m not, I don’t care.
Because at least—
my ego doesn’t reek of ****.
more than acting, more than making films.
your ego reeks of ****
because you keep looking at me like that.
your ego reeks of ****
because it’s your favorite smell.
your ego reeks of ****
because my ego reeks of ****.
we are just mirrors,
wreaking of ****,
washing, cleansing,
but the smell never goes away.
the **** you love
is the **** I used to love when I was a kid.
all trends are patterns
repeating, repeating, repeating.
I love, I love, I love poetry,
and it reeks of ****.
so hard to clean,
but **** isn’t what makes me sick.
it’s the thought of it
being like that forever.
my friend once told me:
if it smells weird, if it smells good—
the smell only lasts for ten seconds.
so even though your breath reeks of ****,
that will change.
oh, you thought I was finished?
we no longer smell of ****.
we smell of the best soaps and shampoos
products available in our area.
(that happens to be Safeguard—
this is not sponsored,
but I always wanted a sponsorship.)
this is a poem, by the way.
stream of consciousness,
dictated through my voice,
since I forgot about this feature.
the ego does not smell like ****—
the ego has no smell.
what smells is your breath,
and that shall pass.
all shall pass.
as I pass on the baton
to the next muse of my inspiration,
I want to say:
your ego no longer reeks of ****.
but if it does, just wait ten minutes.
oh, you thought I was joking?
one more thought:
your ego reeks of ****
because your ego exists.
delete.
oops.
not sure if I’m using this properly.
anyway, I’m not going to edit this poem.
your ego smells like ****
because I made it smell like ****.
your ego can smell good if it wants—
like daffodils, cinnamon rolls,
whatever your imagination comes up with.
but I’m too tired to think
of what smells good besides soap.
so I guess that’s my favorite.
as spoken once:
roses really smell like boo-boo
—Andre 3000, OutKast.
once we realize
everybody’s ego reeks of ****,
we also realize
we can make our ego smell like soap.
and that is the end of the poem
(for now)
unless I come up with something else.
this is stream of consciousness—
this is my poetry collection—
and yes,
I’m a poet writing about a poet
writing poems about ****.
that’s not the point.
the point is:
if your ego smells like ****,
you have a lot of life to live—
for better or worse.
and my ego reeks of ****
the more I write this poem,
but it won’t
once I finish it.
so as I bid you farewell,
I say:
I am no Shakespeare.
I am no Oscar Wilde.
I am Andy Denson.
The next great poet of the world.
And even if I’m not, I don’t care.
Because at least—
my ego doesn’t reek of ****.
This poem started as a stream of consciousness—spoken, not typed. No edits, no overthinking, just words flowing from thought to text. It’s about ego, perception, and the ridiculous ways we assign meaning to things, even smells.
At first, it was an attack. Then a reflection. Then a joke. Then an understanding.
Our egos reek of **** until they don’t. And even if they do, just wait ten minutes.
Inspired by the absurdity of self-awareness, the cycle of trends, and Andre 3000 reminding us that roses really smell like boo-boo.
At first, it was an attack. Then a reflection. Then a joke. Then an understanding.
Our egos reek of **** until they don’t. And even if they do, just wait ten minutes.
Inspired by the absurdity of self-awareness, the cycle of trends, and Andre 3000 reminding us that roses really smell like boo-boo.
