Poets are annoying

When regular people are busy,
they sit and wait to drop
words into the toilet
that'll make you dizzy

They stare at the blank page
the way one stares straight
at the bathroom wall
when taking a
"shhh"
as in, "shut up" and "listen"

the few who stop to do so
won’t be impressed at all
they’ll hear only…sounds
and get headaches, or frowns
they'll choose to forget it

poems are misunderstandings
and the few who dare write them
are nameless turds, wiping
their words onto paper
and calling the stains "art"

my "shhh" is fresh, they'd say
when their breath smells like brain ****

so the moment this poem comes out
I’d like you to throw it in the toilet
and flush it down

ha ha
maybe that’s why poetry
as an art form
stays underground

it stinks
to write what no one will read
or have thoughts no one will think

poets are lonely creatures
locked in stalls with too much ink
not enough toilet paper
and the ironic need to be heard

or worse, to sound cool
with every word-dump they take
only to emerge from their solitude
the way one emerges from the bathroom:
feeling great

I hover over fractured water
the porcelain compels me to lean closer

"I am not lovable"

Are you raised or seated when you have to wipe your ***?
I feel compelled to ask you as there seems no rule of thumb.
Do you use your left hand or do you use the right?
Do you really scrub it or stroke it nice and light?
Do you scrunch the paper or fold it layered flat?
I hope I haven't intruded or offended by asking you all that?


My apologies but sometimes my brain just wont engage neutral gear.

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.

They says that he was a dead man walking
they says that he was gonna die tomorrow
But Heaven knows that he had the essence of chakra
The two streams of consciousness within his soul
They merge into one

In the desert, there is only sand
a glimmer of water
then nothing again
and then he lies down in the dusty volcano

Truly, life is like a toilet paper roll

they look in the bowl
it is dark and and quiet
one stand alone
a poo is present
it glistens in the toilet water
the brown feels soft on my skin
'I didn't eat any corn'
I spoke to the poo within.

Your stream of thought pleases naught,
And swirls your mouth in toilet style,
It spouts your bile through your smile,
Where we all wish it would not

I write these words
Whilst sitting on the can
Can you fold paper?
The paper man can!

He is sitting right next to me
Stuck to the wall
He's rolled up quite neatly
In a cylindrical ball

I'll pull a few sheets
Cause I'll need them for wiping
I'll do it right after
I finally  stop typing

I'll wipe once or twice
And turn around a check
I think I'll wipe thrice
To be sure, what the heck?

I'll flush it all down
In a brown yellow swirl
I'll wave to it goodbye
Then curtsey like a girl

Wash my hands, wash my face
I'll grab for Fabreeze
I'll spray it like mace
Smells like sweet island breeze

I feel so relieved
As I head for the door
That my ****** excretions
Are in me no more!