Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
I run to my ceramic throne,
I feel it coming I groan.
I take my seat,
Try to ****,
To no avail,
I feel terrible.
I push more and more,
My face red, my  *** sore.
One last push,one last try,
A deep breath, a loud cry,
"Who let the dogs out, woof woof,
Out you come, you goof,
Something dropped,
It  worked,
Heard a large plop.
The tumultuous waves of gas,
Make siege and seize,
My stomach with both hands,
Likewise I follow suit,
Through my suit,
Of the finest cotton,
For the softest sweats,
I’d swear to all not some,
While my top is mine,
My bottom is someone else’s,
Who,
Upon realizing its mismatched match up,
Takes a violent political stance,
Based on mudslinging smear campaigns,
Which leaves my middle,
Caught,
In turmoil and painful distress
EP Robles Sep 2018
\ i have a finger
   it has a trigger
i have a bullet
   it has a chamber

a perfect fusion
to combat illusion

  and i'm rolling
back down the road
to the city we all
know of

Linger City
Linger City
Linger City

Where i keep
my finger
with a rigor
mortis snicker

***** you city
slicker
my funny bone
*******
is a state of
perfection
all within
the limits of

Linger City
Linger City
Linger City

yeah /

:: 09-12-2018 ::
It's one of those moments and I won't ignore it.  Write on.
Janek Kentigern Oct 2014
When his mother was dying we each said goodbye
I was moved to tears.

The funeral came and though I tried to remain stoic, English, I cried.
Then he died, pulled under by umbilical cords, tied by my bloodied hands.

When the service came I cried then too.
My parents told me not to cry, as though it was an admission of guilt.
Still I wept through the service, as though their sternly worded advice meant nothing.
I sat and felt several tides of sorrow wash over me.
I tried to clench my bowels when it came. Through the first I stayed strong, forcing the emotion down.

The second wave made my eyes water; and whilst a stray tear dribbled off my chin I remained strong, forcing the emotion back down my swollen throat to maintain composure.

The third wave came, and though I kicked and struggled to keep my head above the guilty waves I sank below
My weeping, scabbed face betrayed the guilt of a murderer and finally I let go
Allowing the full horror of what had transpired to engulf me.
I drowned, my face covered by my ***** jacket.
The priest offered for us to share a final moment with the victim before he was burnt to ashes
And I, like the guilty party sat stock still, paralysed by the truth; that I, at that young age, had killed
And whilst I swore that I would never **** again
I collapsed adrift on a bitter sea of tears,
Howling at the injustice that I had wrought.

Later, when composure had been regained I felt a stirring in those clenched bowels.
I sat down on the porcelain throne and proceeded to **** out a large and meaty ****
I strained, my eyes watered, and my **** tipped to the edge of prolapse.

Comforted, I wiped and then felt nothing.

With humility I knew, that I was not noble Simon Daedalus but lowly Leopold Bloom.

The same avenues corporeal brinkmanship that led me to that sad place
Had led me to safety.

It was at first a sad realisation
But I’m happier now.
I haven't looked at this one in ages. I was shocked and repulsed to the point where I considered editing it.

Then I realised that my former self must've thought that was kind of the point.
Get that **** out
don't let it stay in
building up, soiling
inside and rotting
like the mold on a loaf of bread
ignored on the shelf
for two weeks
too long.

Get that **** out
for what seems to come out
of your ******* to you
may just be that
lost, buried treasure
another has finally found,
and oh how they might worship it
your magnificent ****.
Felt like having a little fun.

— The End —