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Who Told You I Can Write Poems
Who Told You I Can Write Poems
The poems that I write….
Why do I write them at all?
Not for others to read…
I wish not to appall them at all
The crap that I churn out takes a lot of time,
but I guess I can’t whine
I polish a worthless stone,
hallucinating I’m making a diamond shine!
But the shit that comes out finally
brings me back to the ground
Constipated as it often gets,
needs some coaxing around
It’s a struggle to get it out,
but what comes out is never worth a dime
But I keep exercising my bowels,
thinking it’ll help me do better next time!
It’s peace af
ter it comes out,
but I dare not expect it’ll please another
While I might still love my own fart;
I need the good sense to spare the other
To me it’s catharsis, to them it’s torture;
It makes my stupid thoughts wander and expand
Huh! I can polish the stone as much as I want,
that it’ll shine as a diamond, I quickly disband!
Unlike all my pretentious poems
which struggle to get excreted
This one just rushed out with no control,
like a diarrhoea, quite unexpected
Much as I enjoyed it without a shame,
I have already popped in a pill
To arrest this runny poem right away,
lest the reader starts to feel ill!
