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When poets ****
Does it make a fantastical sound
With each plop that they drop is there something profound
Do they get it done quickly with steadfast persistence
Or do they sit there for hours pondering their existence

When poets ****
Is each movement perfected
Or do they just sit and bear down till the poo is ejected
Do they search for deep meaning upon the bowl's murky waters
Or imagine it filled with colorful fishes and otters

When poets ****
Do they wipe as the non-poets do
Or do they defy the norm (side to side?) in the loo
Does it make them depressed, feel down in the pits
Or are most poets joyously taking their sh*ts

When poets ****
Is it melodramatic
Each push pause or squeak intentionally emphatic
Please forgive my crassness (I'm just stuck in a loop)
As I can't help but wonder how poets go ****
Again, sorry. Sometimes, they just write themselves and don't listen to us
Knit Personality Aug 2018
Here I sit unbroken-hearted:
I tried to ****—and did—and farted.
Here I sit, not in a trance:
For *******, sitting's the proper stance.

Here I sit unbroken-hearted:
I put your pants on, then I sharted.
Here I sit, not in a trance:
I tried to ****—and did—your pants.  

Willoughby May 2018
Question:  What's the most disgusting thing humans do almost every day?

Answer: Have bad thoughts about other people.

What did you think the answer was going to be?
Cassie Oct 2018
I'm sorry

Honestly from the pit of my heart
But saying that in words doesn't feel authentic

I'm sorry
You are a being beyond words
And I, am just a *******
That hopes to be as authentic and rich as you are

I am so sorry
I thought you were the person I needed
And I let you lead yourself on

You thought you were, but I was the pawn
Lyn Senz 2 Jul 2017
Wherever you go
whatever you do
you'll never escape
some octogenarian fool
they're smirking
they're lurking
in the shallow end pool
no you'll never escape
some octogenarian fool
they're gummy
** hummy
taking naps around two
no you'll never escape
some octogenarian fool
they're gabby
they're crabby
they're calling **** stool
no you'll never escape
some octogenarian fool!

©2012 Lyn
Hi. This one started out as a serious write with some 'old' fool as my inspiration, brought on by some old fool I have no memory of now. Worth keeping I thought.
Cné Jun 2017
Trying to find a place to ***
I went behind a big o'l tree
She saw me there
Completely bare
Then we became a WEE!!

Oh the deepest trouble, *****
Playing with girls, that sin
just ware these words
don't think her absurd
when she wondering says, "is it in?"

So glad for you, on getting some
while relieving yourself, on the run
Girls that sin
bored, did she ask, "Did you ***?
Or are you done?"

Sorry boys, just having fun!

Hey, welcome aboard
if you're feelin' bored
just give it a rub
but not a snub
that's how we scored

Y'all are so bad, yes it's true
just tell me when your through
pushing, pulling
tweaking, fulfilling
your hands now full, of goo

How could I be bored, with the likes of you two
in need of rubbing, please don't be blue
Make no mistake
I have what it takes
especially, for men well overdue

Talented and beautiful too
always pulling it through
it must be fate
it's always so great
getting a tugging, from you

Walking the streets before dawn
you looked and her light was on
you saw her fare
but didn't care
and wonder where your money's all gone

Poor Bill, he never did learn
he saved all the money he could earn
to pay a sweet lady
at place that was shady
and wonders why his pecker still burns

Bill never learned his lesson
the burn just grew, not lessened
he never went back
his pecker he lacks
no more ****** sessions

The ladies of the evening
sights beyond believing
the things they do
while making you
penniless, and leaving

A working girl, works it
with Johns, turning tricks
and f¥€king
can't blame her, for getting you sick

The doctor told her to take a break
her body one day, might break
all that cavorting
and oral contorting
she just really loved, her tube steaks

He told her to take a seat
when she really wanted a treat
she was feelin' dry
and wasn't shy
And so she went after his meat

Cruising the streets just chillin'
searchin' for a chick just millin'
She shook her ***
I couldn't pass
Oh, well, another shot of penicillin

Something's wrong with Suzy
something oozing, from her coozie
she scratches at an itch
her john's just call her a *****
that's the sum of it, laying down, with floozies

Suzy was rode hard, put up wet
with men on the street corner she met
Wiggling her ***
for just a little cash
***** status. she earned, you bet

Disclaimer: It just gets sicker from here...

Went to the bathroom to sit on the ***
I like to **** while I'm on the clock
There wasn't any paper
I used a finger scraper
I might better had used my sock

Now if there's one thing I know
being a clock, that's fast, and not slow
fingers be scraping
flecks are escaping
****, will under the fingernails, go

Cné to James
Please wash your hands before you eat
Be careful cruisin' down the street
or chillin'
with penicillin
I fear a terrible peril soon, you will meet!
laura Oct 2018
scoopity poopity ****
poopity scoopity scoop
for le strawberry fields, my guinea piggy
laura Oct 2018
scoopity poopity ****
poopity scoopity scoop
Logan Robertson Dec 2018
On This Christmas Day With Trump

There's an odd Santa Claus
In the air
Riding and laughing
Atop Trump's hair
Even through the fluff
Blinded by the glare
Reindeer pulling gifts of prayer
Through the roots they go
Low lights here and there
Laughing in despair
** what sadness  it is to stare
On a one,
White Horse open
Night mare
**, **, **
Open open mouths  a sneer
Tounges at war appear
Whispers everywhere
Laughing in despair
Hats off
We spare
To the red suited fare
And confound
To Trump's
Wishy washy care
Waiting in repair
**, **, **
My good man,
We have clause
To tear
You're in a mess
To bare
For humbug in Trump
So held in arrear
We're crying in despair

Logan Robertson

This was all in fun. Maybe. When Santa's reindeer return home their coats are due for a cleaning. I, mean, after all look what they have been through. The American people, too, need a spiritual cleansing when the next election takes place.
zebra May 2016
i'm a sick ****
i like to hurt girls
some i know love it
even more than pearls

some like the knife
wanting to bleed
death turns them on
and cry for the deed

others the gun
a bullet will do
right in the ***
after one they want two

then some  love fire
please cook me they beg
love to be soup
or boiled like an egg

some love to be drown
cause the bathtub is fun
bend them over and **** them
till the water is run

some beg to be impaled
thats what i like
til there breathing has failed
as i drive up the spike

no matter the method
be it poison or glass
they often lose there bowels
and **** out  there ***

i always love it
real ***** fun
there such good sports
my **** is there sun

and then one day
one came to me
and said hey honey
would you drink poison tea

i thought for a while
it wasn't my thing
but for you my love hmmmm
when it goes down will it sting?

oh yeah it will hurt
you'll cringe and you'll die
then my ***** will squirt
and i'll bite off your thigh

well i love you for sure
a small price to pay
i would do it for ***
or even for a lay

she said i love it
i like the knife and gun
hurting you like that
will be lots a fun

then she said, a problem i have
i need pain too
have you ever played the game
hurt me and hurt you

what a great idea
i can hit you in the head
and before you fall
you can shoot me with lead

o my god its *****
i can ******* in bed
wont it be ****
we will soon be dead

well hold on a minute
i want to lick your ***
kiss you all over
before i pass

oh that sounds good
ill swallow your ****
you can cut me open
**** me with a stick

i'll poke you with holes
and make a big mess
hurt you real bad
and relieve my stress

please use a drill
I'll bleed like a sieve
ow what a thrill
i'm sure i won't live

let's get in the bathtub
all naked and stripped
and hurty each other
i love that you're ripped

we cut and we shot
beat each other to death
each other we loved
til our last ****** breath :)
Destiny Odeh Sep 2015
Osas, there's a certain darkness in me. I can't explain it, but I don't curse the darkness, because it's where we found each other. After I found you, I stopped searching for rainbows in the far reaches of the sky, you were my sunshine. You cast away my troubles and wrestled my demons.

You always said that being whole is overrated; it's the holes that make us beautiful. You made me feel beautiful. Even though the beautiful moments we once had are slowly fading, turning from vivid to grey. I can still feel your palm, gentle on my blushing cheek, stroking my hair, tucking every curly strand behind my ear. The same ear you'd whisper a bouquet of wonderful words into.

I am not a ******, I am not a viscous erupting volcano, I am not fire. I am the phoenix that rose out of the flames you lit. The same fire you came running into, but while trying to save me, you forgot to save yourself.

You were the erupting volcano. You were vicious and violent. You were a deadly collection of everything vile. You were hot and cold, you were yes and no. Did you even love me at all? I guess I will never really know.

I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry. I'm sorry I wrote that last paragraph. I know you loved me dearly. I'm only scraping for a reason to hate you; to cleanse my conscience. I feel so stupid right now. I can't stop crying. I can't stop thinking about that night. The error of my deed still haunts me. The least I can do is to keep writing you back to life, back into my arms.

I got 25 years; I'll be out of here just in time for menopause. I never cared much about having unruly, noisy, silly little babies running riot, leaving a trail of ****, puke and toy cars lying around. But I cared about you. Though the wonderful times we had is becoming a long lost distant memory, I still care about you.

We were of the same form, you and I. Passionately understanding each other's darkness. You knew how fragile my heart and mind was, yet you broke both. I was crazy in love with you, you took away the love and left me plain crazy.

I have lost myself. Maybe if I dig deeper, I'd discover an avalanche of emotions still buried in me. Sandwiched between my ice-cold heart and the poisonous blood coursing through my veins. The same veins I want to expose to the spirits in the wind, and as my blood pours on this cold concrete like leaves on a forest floor - I would be at peace. I hope to find peace in death, for death is not a pit but a ladder; an ascension to another realm. And in that realm I hope to find you, to explain to you why I did it - Why I pushed you off the balcony.

I couldn't look you in the face anymore. You disgusted me! I saw you with her at the office party. Yes, I saw you! Even though you claimed she seduced you. I still saw you! I can't get that horrid image out of my head. It was in that moment I knew I couldn't live another day hearing you tell me another lie.

I got a blade today, from a lady in the shower. After I let her touch me in all the right places, still it felt so wrong. You have no idea how hard it is to find even the simplest sharp object in here. Body cavity searches, routine cell shakedowns, constant reminders that I have and I am nothing. At least she was gentle; Aunty Julianna was never gentle whenever she touched me in the bathroom stall.

Nothing, and no one, can make me whole again. I feel bitter, sad and shattered. Even mirrors no longer lie to me. I see myself for what I am now - a monster.

"I have to do this, this is the only way." I calmly reassure myself, while clutching the jagged blade, slowly pressing it against my deathly pale skin.

"Calm down Adesuwa, don't slit your wrist just yet." A voice echoed from the corner of my dark cell. Your voice. But still I didn’t believe.

"Is that you Osas?" I whispered. "Have you come to forgive me or have you come for retribution?"

"Here's your lunch." said the prison guard, before spotting the blade and sounding the alarm. I was on my belly before I could say a word, my arm bent behind me, my fingers pried open, my ladder gone.

Another day. I guess I’ll die another day.
Luke Wilson Jul 2018
Woop woop woop
I am so happy I can ****
Kanyé Kanyè Kanyē
Is my inspiration

Format it
I’ve written cliché
I think we’re wired that way
An original write is rare
Like the albino squirrel I saw as a child
(and my mom told me not to mention aloud for fear of offending albino humans)  

Anyway, as I was saying...

Easy words make greasy turds
And the reader forgets them
as soon as they’re heard
A little pat on the ego for a snowy branch with a bird, and we leave each other worse poets
than we already were

Challenge me
Make me think
I’ve read the same poem
A million times, I think
(enough with my weak rhyme... moving on)

I’ve Heard about

A million depressed souls
A million broken hearts
A million flowers and clouds
(Yes, I’ve read three million greasy farts)

A million and a half people pondering the petty particulars of personal struggles anticipating a little alliteration might make magical prose pour from pretending poets — ****, I say!

Don’t coddle me with kindness when my poems
Could **** a watermelon through a straw

Don’t tell me it’s lovely
when I threaten killing myself

Don’t stroke my vanity or tell me I’m above average, when me my poem is like a small ****, and you didn’t even feel it

Be honest, at least, and make me a better poet

Poetry is truth

And there are way too many lies being told

FIN (needed a little Nouvelle Vague cliché)
This is not poetry. This is not good. And I am proud of that. :)
Britni Ann Feb 2018
What is it like living with an eating disorder?
It’s living every day in fear of the food around you.
You have to eat, it's a biological need.
It's around the dinner table where people get to know each other,
It's how people care for others, bringing meals, making favorites.  
And when you don't eat people get suspicious and ask questions.  
It’s is living with a life revolved around weight loss pills, laxatives, and trying to puke as quietly as you can because you couldn't think of a good enough excuse to say no.
You puke to punish your body for it's biological need for food.
You binge on Cheetos or cookie dough, let it satisfy your hunger for an hour or so and then you puke it up because you shouldn’t have even looked at the food.
Life with an eating disorder is weight scales and the clothes you used to fit and the ways you hide your dramatic weight loss.
It’s telling your body to shut up, forcing your stomach to stop whaling because it wants food and, throwing them off a cliff into the ocean.
It’s putting on a smile after you came out of the bathroom puking your guts out pretending you had to take a shower or you had a really big ****.
its the voices in your head telling you, "you are ****" "you are fat"
It's not being able to tell those voices to shut up and they consume you.
It’s making excuses and trying to decide how long you can get away with the same one like “oh I ate at home.” “oh I ate earlier.” “oh we’re actually getting something to eat no thanks.” It’s seeing how much water you can drink to get rid of your hunger just to give you some peace of mind.
That’s an eating disorder.
That’s me.
The poem is called Fairies to take attention away from the poem. What so many girls tend to do. At least thats what I do...
meGaThOr Mar 2018
bubble gum died Sunday of strokes at his home ,
The pink bubble gum ...
had a tiny comic strip
Little children wanted to read the comic.
in an adulterous liaison
and is born homely and with green skin.
under the hawkish gaze
in retro pastel uncool-they’re-cool-again cans,
a big splash with a peppy
emoji-like smiles on the side and some polka dots
oh oh oh oh oh oh thus liked
consumers should felt free
... to be relentlessly
Has almost no bite.” “Full-bodied.
This tastes like a Twizzler...
“Sharper bubble feel.”
acrolein, acrylamide, acrylonitrile,
crotonaldehyde and propylene,
flavorturned into a huge mess like 'unicorn ****'
and bubble gum."
oh oh oh oh oh oh thus liked
“All those teenagers was twerk,
take selfies and curse up a storm. …”
oh oh oh oh oh oh thus liked
...turned into a huge mess
Oh My God, they’re Home, I will not starve!
I’ve got to let them know I love them so!
Oh wait, they’ll know, ‘pon seeing the **** I carved,
And seeing my lovely *** Art in the Snow!
Will they notice if I jump up High?
Maybe I should stick to making art
And paint their faces with my slobber dye!
Or show my love, perhaps with a quiet ****?
Oh Lord, my tail! my tail!  Where is it now?
Where’s Mom? Where’s Dad? I thought they were right here!
Should I stop jumping? But I don’t know  how.
Perhaps start barking? Wait, I see a deer!
For all the Love they show me every day,
I still feel ‘lone when they’re not here to play.
James Floss Jan 9
The “Fake news!" argument
I’m smelling the “Red Herring” fallacy
Put your fingers in your ears
And shout “LALALA, I can’t hear you!”

Does the falling tree make a sound?
Does **** smell?
Even from bears, in the woods?
And from the Pope?
On a long hike, with no other option available

“Fake news” is a majestic confabulation!
And a mind-numbing conundrum
A Chinese finger-puzzle
Hideously, incredibly strategic; but

Sorry folks:
Not true.
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