"constipation" poems
To **** or not to **** that’s the ******* question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the bowels to suffer
The twists and turns of outrageous rumblings
Or to take action against a bellyful of gas,
And by farting pump one out? To strain, to bloat
No more; and by a mighty outburst we’ll end
The gut’s ache, and the thousand natural stenches
That the **** is heir to, 'tis a resolution
Right devoutly to be wish'd. To **** to ****
But perchance to **** there's the ******* problem;
For in that mighty **** of doom what turds may come,
When we have let the little beauty out from mortal tail,
Must give us pause; there's the danger
That makes calamity of the farter’s life;
For who would bear the sneers and mocks of men,
The neighbour’s shock, the lover’s curling lip,
The pangs of horrid stench, the ******* o’erflowing,
The leaking **** orifice, and the drips,
Impatient strainings that the tragic farter makes,
When he himself might sweet easance make
With a careful prodding finger? Who would a ******** wear,
Grunting and sweating with noisome convulsions,
But that the dread of solids after air-release,
The undiscover'd oozings, from whose delivery
No toilet visitor recovers, puzzles the will,
And makes us bear the bellyache we have
Than fly to others we know not of?
Thus indigestion does make cowards of us all;
And then the native heave of constipation
Is sicklied o'er with the pale fear of defecation;
And enterprises of both ******* and crapping
With this regard, their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of exciting toilet action.
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 2:25 PM UTC
the slime of all my yesterdays
rots in the hollow of my skull
and if my stomach would contract
because of some explicable phenomenon
such as pregnancy or constipation
I would not remember you
or that because of sleep
infrequent as a moon of greencheese
that because of food
nourishing as violet leaves
that because of these
and in a few fatal yards of grass
in a few spaces of sky and treetops
a future was lost yesterday
as easily and irretrievably
as a tennis ball at twilight
8.4k
A living breathing inauthentic dialect of amalgamated spirituality mixed with an ever so pervasive mix of tomfoolery and diluted astrotheology
An inexcapabley unexhausted aproproptraiton of extrapulated constipation
homeginzed and watered down to make it easier for the minds of the masses to swallow it down.
Jan 2, 2013
Jan 2, 2013 at 3:39 PM UTC
what a strange word:
toilet...
as if one must toil -
really work hard at it,
all toil and no rest -
when one is there...
Ah, surely whoever
coined this word
must have suffered
of chronic constipation...
Oct 13, 2010
Oct 13, 2010 at 3:10 AM UTC
"Static on the line"
I lose my senses,
destined for greatness while stuck in this place where,
intelligence is replaced with penmanship.
"Lost connection"
Getting faded,
all familiar faces turns to agents like im Neo stuck in the matrix...
"No motivation.."
To fight this war myself and get through all this **** for my freedom like shawshankredemption.
"Mind constipation.."
Caught in the web of Jezabel,
Cant think over the ring of the dinnerbell.
"Losing patience.."
Stared her dead in the eyes but all she saw was her reflection.
Sep 30, 2016
Sep 30, 2016 at 1:34 PM UTC
Emotional abandonment
of the
Self
by the
Self
is the greatest
DECEIT
of all.
Becoming your own
personal
JUDAS,
just because it's morally:
SAFE?
ACCEPTED?
PROTECTIVE?
What a **** way to
kayak your way through
life's never ending
**** SHOW,
starring YOU
the
**** PUPPET.
Full of fear,
full of ****
Forcing yourself to
FEEL
or
BE
anyone but yourself
is a fast train
to
CHRONIC SPIRITUAL CONSTIPATION.
baaa baaa
Jan 16, 2015
Jan 16, 2015 at 3:21 PM UTC
To talk to the menace of man
To hear fast words belched out
Like a drunkard holding His gun
Time trickles tears
Of the one's
Left behind
How beauty moves
Is a mystery
To minds unprepared for chance
I hear year long struggles from bugles
Laced
In
Gold
And am very very bored
There are times when I speak
And I cannot recognize the voice
Somewhere far off from me
A woman pulls up her flowered shorts
Was I there to pull them down?
Or was I here?
**** wednesday forgot its own name
Distracted by the glare of the bad masses B's
Expensive and ludicrous jewelry
To take a moment is to take a slice of life
Forgetting that you were once nothing
And soon will be
Nothing
To fret the death of the ego the work the paint splattered soul dirt
Chipped teeth line curb side markets
With trinkets and hairy arm pits
I destroyed a letter I wrote to myself today
Because the nakedness of mine own soul
Was to boring and dreary to read
For now we are the waking still lives
Of the art we all wished we could create
So close so far so long so short
Is our time here to giggle at the way a dog must walk
When it is constipated
Don't laugh at that because dog constipation
Is a
Very
Serious
Thing
Regression in the Freudian sense croquet neck tie polar bears
My mother named me after that
But not before
She shot the winning shot
In her hometown
Volleyball game
Letters of three make me sneeze
Jun 5, 2011
Jun 5, 2011 at 10:43 PM UTC
The patient has had no nausea,
vomiting or back pain. No chills,
fatigue, fever, decreased vision
or double vision. No ear drainage
or hearing loss, epistaxis or
runny nose. No sore throat, calf
pain, chest pain, cough or difficulty
breathing. No pedal edema,
palpitations, black stools, ******
stools or constipation. No diarrhea,
urinary frequency, laceration, skin
rash or depression. No dizziness,
headache, head injury, weakness
or enlarged lymph nodes. All
systems negative
and yet
Mar 27, 2012
Mar 27, 2012 at 7:16 PM UTC
Unable to express your feelings out is hard
Like your whole being is constipated
Aug 5, 2014
Aug 5, 2014 at 2:06 AM UTC
I am angry
Anger is the root of not getting what you want and I really want my people to progress but there just seems to be so much distress that is plaguing my people
I am angry
Angry because education isn't valued
I mean we used to fight to try to read and write but now I see kids that can't even read or just don't want to
My great grandfather traveled four states with a family to find a decent education when we were even allowed to be educated
Where has that audacity gone
My grandfather was a principle
My daddy went to a segregated school and has his phd cuz he values education
I am angry
Angry when I see my beautiful black sistahs not valuing themselves because they think they aren't valuable cuz there daddy isn't there
But that's called an excuse to live a life that is bound by low self-esteem
I am angry
Angry when I see my brothas on these corners knowing they are smart enough to do something better
Mystical weather conjuring to be a constipation storm cuz everything is backed up
We can push through for a release
So I am angry
Angry that my people aren't seeing that something jus ain't right
We aren't owed anything
We do have something to bring to the table
But we are so angry about all the oppression
And once we got free we took to for granted
So I am angry...what are u?!
Jun 10, 2013
Jun 10, 2013 at 2:51 PM UTC
Bazooka that veruka
Wage war on your warts
Charge the canons against corns
And ills of other sorts
Conscript regiments of Rennies
Antacid to supress indigestion
Establish naval fleets
Of fisherman friends sweets
To banish nasal congestion
smear your chest with Vick
To ensure victory is quick
And if headaches ensue
Aspirin will win and subdue
If your enemy is constipation
Let senna be your friend
And if your throat is sore
Let strepsils make swift amends
Show viruses they're not welcome
Fight back with all your might
Give germs no easy terms
And soon you'll feel alright!
Aug 3, 2014
Aug 3, 2014 at 8:44 PM UTC
The way is blocked
Hurting only you
You can still help others
But your creativity stopped
You have Creative Constipation
And there is one way to make it stop
Face your fears
Try something new
Make a memory
Get scraped a few
Take a Creative Laxative
Get those juices flowing again
Then you’ll have
Creative Diarrhea
Ideas flowing forth
In the forms
Of line or verse
Movie or paint
Everything you see
Will be touched
By your creative spree
Apr 29, 2013
Apr 29, 2013 at 7:59 PM UTC
That day i finished
A small piece
For an obscure magazine
I popped it in the box
And such a starry elation
Came over me
That I got whistled at in the street
For the first time in a long time.
I was ***** and roughly dressed
And had circles under my eyes
And far far from flirtation
But so full of completion
Of a deed duly done
An act of consummation
That the freedom and force it engendered
Shone and spun
Out of my old raincoat.
It must have looked like love
Or a fabulous free holiday
To the young men sauntering
Down Berwick Street.
I still think this is most mysterious
For while I was writing it
It was gritty it felt like self-abuse
Constipation, desperately unsocial.
But done done done
Everything in the world
Flowed back
Like a huge bonus.
2.9k
I've diarrhea,
And it's ink,
Explaining why
My writing stinks.
I've constipation
Of the brain,
Leaving little
But shart stains.
I'm irregular,
I'll wear a diaper,
And write my poems
On toilet paper.
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 8:30 AM UTC
They said my lines were weak
So I learned not to speak
I decided not to speak
Now the lines are stuck in my mind
Driving me insane
Stay in your lane
I'm a girl who loves to dance
Yet too afraid to give it a chance
Utterly bored with myself
Wishing to purely connect
Aching for
the courage
the tools
the words
To get out of this rut
All my ideas swirl into gray lines
That fill my mind
And fuel the emptiness
That keeps me from feeling alive
Left only with a penchant for pleasing
I just laugh it off
Then cry dry tears at night
Where did I go?
Can you see me?
I'm lost in the monotony
Can you save me?
Can I save me?
Mar 18, 2017
Mar 18, 2017 at 1:53 AM UTC
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 ****
Jun 2, 2014
Jun 2, 2014 at 12:07 AM UTC
and my soul fell through the hole in my soul which fell through my ********
signed:
-abe da babe linkin.
Feb 16, 2013
Feb 16, 2013 at 1:37 AM UTC
So, you're sitting in a doctors room, wondering why you can't stop crying,
When he enters saying"It's good news" a result from all that trying.
In a haze you drive to tell your mum, she knows from the silly grin,
And there and then, you buckle up, this journey is about to begin.
So, vomiting and painful ******* and screaming at your husband,
Is part and parcel to this little nightmare, nature calls pregnant.
Oh, don't forget the stretchmarks, and the piles that grow like grapes,
And mood swings, constipation, and eating sticky tape?!,
And now you're halfway through your quest, you look so beautiful,
Your hair and skin look radient, maintaining health is dutiful,
Then little kicks bring on the tears as both of you embrace,
And watching as the tv screen shows up a tiny face.
As weeks turn into months, you begin the preparation,
With practise runs for when its time to get to the nurses station.
Your feet have disappeared from sight, no need for the nail clippers,
And lack of sympathy from him, as your feet look like fluffy slippers.
The lack of room within your womb means little or no sleep,
The inability to get up, so give in, stay in the seat,
So here we go, your waters break, and hubby thinks you've peed,
You tell him"Get the car, or i will squash you like a seed!".
The pleas for pain relief and stupid questions from the nurses,
You try to answer politely, between the frequent curses,
The final throes are happening, you're screaming like a pig,
And out she comes, the miracle, "Oh look, isn't she big?!",
Then suddenly all the pain and grief are suddenly forgotten,
"A boy next" Those famous last words of your poor husband!
Nov 1, 2009
Nov 1, 2009 at 3:39 AM UTC
Constipation, ************
excitation, evaluation
Hold on a minute
HIS Creation
The mind went blank
the body convulsed
no-one knows why
but theories abound
Expectation, demolition,
misinterpretation, damnation,
Wait a second
MY Creation
I did so much
in my chaotic youth
probably nothing to blame
only me and my likes
Infuriation, retaliation,
malediction, apprehension,
stop-look-listen
THEIR Creation
It seems unfair
but why despair
put it in perspective
certainly things could be worse
Demoralization
Intimidation
Expectation
Presumption
Assumption
Palpitation
Aggravation
Ball of confusion
Trepidation
Holy ****
A VIOLENT Creation
Jan 9, 2011
Jan 9, 2011 at 3:31 PM UTC
The saddest day of my life.
My mud baked excrement died at sea. Bobbing up and down with the style of a cheap ****** I wiped a tear from my eye as I said goodbye.
A part of me felt choked as white streams of bog role acted as the white sheet of a ****** scene.
No police, no forensics.
Strangulation appeared to be the cause resulting in decapitation.
Wouldn't have happened if I didn't use Manipulation to overcome the chronic constipation.
Last time I eat beans on toast.
Now I'm being haunted by a **** shaped ghost!
May 19, 2015
May 19, 2015 at 4:53 PM UTC
The expectation,
Of you to accept the inhalation,
Of the evaporation,
Of someone else’s waste.
Make it make sense,
How the walls of stalls,
Fail to reach its maximum highs and lows,
For all of us to share what we release.
We listen to the air,
That flubs between *** cheeks,
Just as the **** projects deuces,
Into the bowl that cups the sound of wind.
We hear the moans and sighs,
Of relief, constipation and strain,
As we urinate nearby,
Adjacent to the incomplete **** shack.
Make it make sense,
How tasting the gases,
Of Joe Blow, blowing out his insides,
Is a customary to our community.
A sociological experiment,
Deemed to generate sociopathy,
As we laugh at the flatulence,
And giggle at one’s vulnerability.
Merely a forgotten fact,
That we have been there too,
We go there every day,
And pretend that others don’t do the same.
And without a mere act of courtesy,
The space is left filthier than the last,
Because why be considerate for the next?
Someone’s job is to cleanse my waste.
Furthermore is the neglect,
Of faucets, soap and towels,
Aimed to **** bacteria,
That exits biological passageways.
Why oh why,
Must I be forced to study,
Why this is simply unacceptable,
This concept of oversharing?
Recurring stage fright,
Readily apparent,
When forced to **** beside men,
More than double my size.
I’ll simply never understand,
How by design,
What we wouldn’t do in front of house guests,
Is something we are urged to do in front of strangers.
Bonding,
With a bunch of hairy, overweight men,
Who clear their throats, bladders and colons,
In my personal space.
Nov 13, 2023
Nov 13, 2023 at 9:41 PM UTC
She gives the gift of gab!
When her love snapped onto my back, like a rucksack to be worn
The old me died, a rambling man was born.
My words are playing a twisted game of Temple Run
The monkeys are her eyebrows, cocked like pistols, and we're playing Russian Roulette.
My words are emptiness and hot air and imagined shapes, yet not nearly as two-dimensional as constellations.
She's a phrase I just learned, and will incorrectly overuse.
She's a worm in my ear, impossible to lose.
She feels like two cups of tea at three in the morning.
She feels like assembling an RC car without reading the instruction manual.
And by God, those eyebrows.
I need her like rocks need water and snow needs the sun.
I want her like turtles want to fly and eagles want to run.
She's that feeling when rain comes down on an empty highway.
She's half a bottle of Elmer's glue I just dribbled onto my hands.
I miss her like broken bowls miss Cheerios and holey socks miss feet.
I miss her like diarrhea misses constipation.
I miss her like NBC misses viewers who have turned to online news sources.
I miss her like journalists miss exposés.
I miss her like polar bears miss ice caps.
I miss her like avalanches miss snowy peaks.
I miss her like Hiroshima survivors miss World War One.
I miss her like cities miss silence.
Mostly, I just miss the silence.
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 5:34 AM UTC
My nervous stomach always makes it hard to **** during a vacation. This isn’t MY toilet. After two weeks of self-inflicted constipation in my friend’s cousin’s tiny pueblo, I couldn’t hold it anymore.
I took a huuuuuuuuuge dump. To my horror, it was so huge it wouldn’t flush. Oh God no.
I smuggled a grocery bag into the bathroom and put it over my hand as a glove to pinch the link into smaller sections. Flush ********* Even the pieces wouldn’t go down. I pulled them out with the bag and threw it in the trash can outside as fast as I could.
I kept waiting, horrified, for the trash truck to come please don’t discover my **** in there please don’t discover my **** in there until the day the trash can got full.
In these little pueblos, what I didn’t know is that there is no trash truck. They burn their trash. My **** was in there.
They burned my ****
Jan 22, 2013
Jan 22, 2013 at 11:52 PM UTC
I think I lack a life
And feel dead from the neck up
But it's easy to see
I don’t give a ****
No
No
No
No motivation
Just constipation
Mostly
************
Pay no attention
To my frustration
Breaking my concentration
I can't find a job
Must admit I don’t look hard
I wanna fix my ways
But I don’t know where to start
No
No
No
No motivation
Just constipation
Mostly
************
Pay no attention
To my frustration
Breaking my concentration
I'm evil
I'm twisted
My train ride
I missed it
I wanna
Get better
I'm writing
This letter
Dear reader,
I can't get outta my own way
And I have nothing to say
About the person I am
But help me if you can
Or maybe I shouldn't change why should I rearrange
I like who I am
So **** you man
No
No
No
No motivation
Just constipation
Mostly
************
Pay no attention
To my frustration
Breaking my concentration
Mar 4, 2015
Mar 4, 2015 at 10:05 PM UTC
I give my life to this poem
I give my soul to the words within
My emotion lives like an ocean
As its body of water that lives
And breathes like a sea full
Of tears of joy
Mixed with the tears of the
Lonely or lost now annoyed
I give my time and my all
No matter big in size or small
Sometimes a message doesn't
Need even 1 paragraph at all
I pledge to rise and then fall
Within these lines and not
Within the lines that confines
My mind until the line is crossed
I sacrifice myself as the cost
If it means others proceed
Cuz no matter how amazing u are
U gotta hope to inspire a breed
That will be better and supersede
Like our seeds were super
I wanna move u, and move more
Than a 9-5 career mover
It's a passion without ration
As it tends to limit length
Distance freedom of speech
And all that's meant to have strength
So I'm satisfied if I end
No richer but still liberation
Comes from the power held
When u expel true inspiration
Literary diarrhea no constipation
Feelings r condensation cuz
If its hot or cold enough it
Creates its own reaction with buzz
So I give all I am and ever was
To these sentences that express
The faith and hope I possess
Praying it has some effect
I give my blood my sweat
My experiences, my fears
So that it eases the next person
U thought they were alone here
I give myself to this poem
and leave it for those who need to
find courage, strength or hope and to
provide warmth as lifes cold winds blew
I give myself to this poem
so it can give me to you
And if I'm lucky u will carry a
Piece of it along wit u too
So I give myself to this poem
so it can give me to you .....
and i will live on as pieces of each
person i touched and got through to...
May 23, 2015
May 23, 2015 at 11:27 PM UTC