The Joker King is joker ing the world.
My favorite food is (pull my finger) paste.
Gertrude's a guy that got his ****** girled.
I'm guided (kiss my ******) by my taste.
Science is racist.  So are roads and math.
"Gender's a social construct," said the it.
Showers are racist.  Take, instead, a bath.
Or don't.  (It isn't racist to smell like ****.)
Cheeba's the cure-all drug, the every cure
That cures the cancer caused by ******* smoke.
Since sugar's such a super food, be sure
To eat your cake while drinking cans of coke.
Ableist ******* can't (won't) get their way!
Antiableists vote for Special K!

Despite suffering from illness,
****** assault from a once trusted individual,
being told I do not belong in my own country,
and shoved away by supposed peers and professor at my institution,

I remain.
As steadfast as ever,
protecting my place, country, and
family.

No matter how exhausted
or how shattered my current frame of reality may be,
I never cheat on my schoolwork or exams
like the same peers who belittle me.

Me, who is there:
patiently waiting,
always the last,
seeking help after another misstep;

Nonetheless,
diligently remaining on track,
amidst the others descended from the Esteemed,
Who continue the cyclic tradition of oppression.

While I acknowledge that
the absence of refuge
for the trodden
has existed for many centuries,

and even myself as of now,
I understand it to be ill-gotten privilege
I may have stolen
from another applicant more promising than me;

I remain in
This Place
amongst books
and the International Royalty.

Beginning from
such atrocities
in both blood, home, and later within the educational institution,
I never had any interest in making a name for myself.

I did not apply to college because I was told to—
it is because I was predominantly told the opposite.
Facing the shouting and dismissals
from those closest in blood and esteemed teachers at school.

In this time of a loosening socioeconomic hierarchy,
finally exposing the Freedoms of this Nation
Our Ancestors could never dream of,
We Must Remain, Learn, and Fight!

Revel in how
Unfulfilled we are,
Remain Loyal to your well-established Ideals,
and Fight!

Speaking is an art
words like paint
we smear and spread out our ideas onto canvas

If you paint too fast-
**** it
you might make a mistake

Did you know paint can expire?
you think come one, paint?
paint can't go bad!
then you try and use it and its separated and chunky
and boom
your whole piece is ruined.

Words can expire too.
did you know that?
phrases and metaphors age turn ugly and contaminating just like the paint
they might have been usable once, but now
you'd better get some new words.

Like, when referring to someone who uses a wheelchair
people don't say they're crippled.
because that word has expired!

The same way simpleton was used to
refer to someone with intellectual disabilities
was is the key word there.
please for the love of god don't call anyone a simpleton

Lunatic was once used to refer to people with psychiatric disabilities
don't say the teacher who gave you homework on a Friday is a lunatic!

******* was used to refer to people with intellectual disabilities
but now you should NOT call anyone or anything *******!
because it is inappropriate and insulting

This isn't about taking away your words
it's about what you are taking away from people with disabilities
when you use language like that.
what you are stripping away from people
when you decide to use a word like

*******
gimp
deformed
disfigured

Freak
insane
lame
******

*****
spaz
stupid
whacko

Knock it off!
when you decide to use those words
it takes away from anyone who has a disability
or anyone who every will.

Use a different word
use swear words
find a thesaurus.

Get some new **** paint

So I was taking lil Tyler to school
and I got to meet one of his friends!
Tyler was so excited to introduce me to him,
but that poor little babe!
He was in a wheelchair!

Bless my son's heart for looking past this kid's...
um....
Well you know it takes a special kid to have a crippled friend!
Wait
I mean
Not special! My son is not special
No, wait, I mean he ain't SPECIAL special
You know?

Anyways, so I met his friend and I'm not quite sure what to do here
I say
HELLO I AM TYLER'S MAMA
and this little kid looks me dead in the eyes and told me
"Hello ma'am, there's no need to yell"
I was in awe
He didn't sound handicapped at all!
I mean I didn't know if he would be able to understand me
But he did!

Who would have thought a wheelchaired kid
could speak and think just like any other kid who wasn't gimpy!

I am just so so proud of my son
for looking past this poor victim of
um...
deformities...
Cuz you know it's probably good for the disabled
to have a regular normal friend like my son!

Hopefully my son can make that kid happy
you know since people like that usually have such sad lives.
Golly I am just so proud of my son for taking pity on that kid!
I am such a good mother!

I have been invisible before.
My thoughts and justifications were transparent.
All anyone could see were my actions;
the way I failed and stumbled,
and ran head first into doors that lead me down path after path of distraction.
At least they seemed like distractions,  
oh, but they become my destruction. 


I spent my time quietly imploding,
only to change my mind last minute,
and suddenly explode.
I changed my mind,
but my body stayed stock still.
I stood in front of the judges
and while my tongue was granite,
the urge to run from the podium had never been greater.

I wished to be invisible.
I wished to go to a dark corner of the room and finish my implosion.
Out of sight,
where I could hide and self destruct without a sound.

And then if,
or when,
I picked up the shrapnel,
I could re-join everyone on stage at graduation.

I could hold my head high
and with a smile,
pretend no one saw me crumble.

I jumped off the platform
and onto the train tracks today
simply because — well —
there was nothing else to do.
I did my laundry at two in the afternoon,
had breakfast an hour after that,
and filled in my daily quota
of wondering where my life is heading.
And I completed all those tasks
before five!

Can you believe it?

I jumped off the platform
and onto the train tracks today
simply because I felt like it.
Because death
has been knocking on my door
since 2014, and I thought
to finally give it a chance.
Because the thought of dying
is the only thing that keeps me alive.
Because at this point,
death is the only thing I haven’t tried.

So, I jumped.

I jumped — and the train crashed into me,
like death was finally
giving me the embrace I have denied for so long.
It said, “This is the end, and you
have reached it.” And I, all red and blood
on the floor, smiled because
death is exactly how I
have been imagining it.

The people around me have places to be,
lives to live, people to love, pets to care for,
and I — I am guts on the ground
they are frowning at because I
delayed their entire lives.
They would think back
thirty years from now,
and remember the girl
who spilled her guts on the train tracks.

But I will be dead, and my last memory
would always be the faces of these strangers.

Was my death an inconvenience?
Did my death ruin your life?
Your day? Your evening?
Did seeing me die
make you realize
how precious your life is?
Did seeing all the ugly parts of me
make you think of how beautiful you are?

Did my death serve as a lesson?
Did my death teach you
how to be alive?

Lucky.

My body was a graveyard
long before it was dead, and my mind
was even worse than that.
And you think your life is ruined?
You think your life will never be the same?

Funny.
Mental illness
took that chance away from me.

At least I did the laundry,
had breakfast,
and filled in my quota
before I jumped.

Day 1: You're always shaking, you're like the grass under the whirring blades of a lawnmower. I laugh at that. You're so funny when you can't breathe. You're so funny with your scars, hidden beneath sleeves like white soldier grave stones, underneath a blanket of shaking grass, tall grass, dead grass, laughing grass, long forgotten names. Like, like, firing squad death row under sheets of blood- no- fallen brick walls. Civilians, awaiting rescue. You tug at your shirt awkwardly, I am staring.

Day 6: What are you asking me now? What? Them? No, they don't hate you. The stars with molars, canines, and needles out their sides don't at least. You're asking me about the fish? Scales, fins, aquatic? The star fish with self-esteem issues doesn't mind you. He's just selfish. The narcissistic parrot fish loves you as much as her own reflection. The high strung cat fish is kinda infatuated. He's something else. The shark? She thinks you're ****, but don't tell her I said that. You won't? You never do. I like that about you.

Day 23: You been okay? You haven't been asking much about me lately. Me? Funny you should ask. I'm not sick. Not now. Haven't tried to bash my skull in in a week, it's progress. You? Oh ****, that's too bad. I wish you'd stop opening up your forearms. I wish you'd just stop popping pills like after Chinese food dinner mints, bursting them in your stomach to spread like fog, milky white to drown out whatever your drawing from your wrists.

Day 72: You're drunk again? Jesus, what will it take for me to leave you? You've already bitten the hand that feeds too many times you sloppy wolf puppy you. I mean, sure I waved it in front of your face but don't you know your own teeth? *******, quit throwing up and get back to work, paint me a pretty picture pathetic *****. Put down the knife or broken glass or razor or whatever the ****, I don't want to do that anymore it stopped being interesting after like, the fifth time. Yeah I know I said I cared! I know I said I wouldn't stop caring, wouldn't leave you! But have you ******* seen yourself? Go ahead kid, count those scars, make some more, whatever you do in that basement of yours. I can't stand you! I can't stand your stupid brain, you're always crying what's up with that? How old are you now? Right. My point exactly. Jesus Christ, shut up for once.

Day 95: No wait- ****- sorry. I didn't realize. Hey, you know what sweetheart? Let's shake hands. Your end of the deal? I won't be the reason you **** yourself, you stop making your arms look like bulldog wrinkle jowls, or like, sliced bread, cracked sidewalk, blistered vein soup, running like drippy little kid noses, whatever- just make it stop. I won't tell you all the ways you fall short in 3 words or less. Deal? Deal.

Day 103: Just kid- keep breathing. I won't do it for you. See ya', have fun ******* yourself up and over.

All the poems about anxiety--
Never had I understood them until now
I'd warn my relatives and friends
I'm horribly stressed and agonizingly anxious--
And of course they'd nod and tell me
To calm down, it'd be alright
That I was overreacting
It was such a fixable plight

For years I've heard of the pain
Being alone, in an ableist world
**** it up! Don't you know?
You're life's so fortunate!
Some are beaten, some are starving,
Some are trapped in their lifeless bodies
You? You sit there, like a child,
Clasping your arms
Until red, raw bruises surface
Why on earth?
You're older now! Take care of yourself!

So this is what the anxious experienced.
With this, they solemnly dealt.
So much of this I've heard about
Read and dreaded the talk
But now…
The fool I was, to never pay heed,
To never once ask if a friend is all right,
All fine,—of course not!
Still they’d ask for the sake of mine,
And never could I grant the slightest help for good return

Somedays I’ll watch people jest
Even with the severity of anxiety
Perhaps they’re coping,
But many fellows don’t manage the same
Now the public’s ignorance
Runs dry my bottle of patience
I won’t live until they know
The expense of their deplorable actions