The Joy of Turds

  Poetry is a rough subject for me. It goes all the way back to my childhood. It began with writing silly parodies to existing songs, but before long, I was replicating poetic feelings with fluid rhythm and make believe heart. Sooner after, I was gifted with underdeveloped feelings of my own. It was at that fragile age when words could not express feeling, so I wrote things anyway, and said that they did. This most difficult and artistic phase coincided with a time when you had to ask individuals to read your poetry in person, from a sheet of paper, like a dick. It was a nightmare. Everybody hated those poems.

  As years passed, and I blossomed into new stages of being, I grew to hate them too. They were awful. Besides, I had newer, improved poetry, that was more current to the new person I was at that new time, that I felt was finer written. And in the blink of an eye, it sucked just as much as my older stuff. Yep. My life has been a cycle of changing for the better, and hating what I've changed from. For every poem that I begin writing, one that I've completed becomes complete garbage. This cycle continues to this day. 

  It wasn't until more previously, during this present stage of mine, or maybe the stage just before it, that I learned how to make my writing personal. My earlier work was all forced. It wasn't flowing from a tangible place inside me, it came from nowhere, it reflected nothing. I was writing with my hands, not my soul. Once I figured out how to access thoughts that were organic to me, and how to transfer those thoughts in place of my poems, my work was at last given meaning. I could finally reach my inner self, and find the joy of delving in it's wonders. The words came more naturally, revealing secrets that I otherwise would not have known. Poetry is magic, my friend, except the rule about secrets is the opposite.

  Anyway, long story short, it was recently brought to my attention that I wrote the following poem. I reread it, and was surprised at how accurately it captures the essence of the woman I am as of late. It's not very old, so it's not garbage yet, but it will be, so it's now or never. Also, if you like poems more than I do, check out my earlier blog entitled, "A Thing". I wouldn't. And so, without further segue, here it is, a spilling of my spirit, a snippet of my soul.. 

I'm a poem. Hi, I'm lame

Hope I throw them off their game

That'll show 'em your uniqueness

Sit at home, and hone your weakness

Prose of roses' thorns and pinkness

Cozily reborn in ink-jets

Testify your boring secrets

Bless their eyes with scores of leaflets

Wreck their minds with forms and feeling

Let each line be warm and healing

Steal their sordid hearts with nectar

Fresh from gardens of your depth

Where ponds and parchment coalesce

And sonnet arches row the fence

To quench the unrequesting guest

Who pets your ego like a pest

Oh, such expressions to inflict!

To feed the soul and soothe the sick

To dream, to die, to live and live

Through me, with finely written script

May demons rise to sip your cup

And be surprised with sweetened tusks

As cherubs dive beneath their butts

With buttons busting from their guts!

Oh, clarify with fair rebuff

Humbled by thy sharing stuff

Cumbersome and harried host

Ponderer of scary ghosts

The honor of this merry toast

Don thee in thy notes of wonder

Gandhi of thy lonesome plunder

Sunder unto me your pittance

Of epiphany and witness

Fit me in refined dictation

Silken reams of time and patience

Taste for me what I've not tasted

Say through me what mouths displace

Playfully endow this page

Astound sensations,  wow the strange

Crowds will towel your brow of strain

As consonants and vowels explain

The bowels of your salted scrapes

And bounties of green glossy grapes

Oh, bow for me, my author dear

With thoughts so wise beyond your years

Who's awesome cries drop awesome tears

Sear my spine and grind your gears

That'll redefine their judgement

Enemies of love will love it

Let me be your smug propellant

How I hunger just to smell it!

Now they'll understand your talent!

Branded on my handsome palette

Oh, radical transcendent totem

Thatta' girl, you end this poem! 

http://princessgarbageface.blogspot.com/2015/01/a-thing.htmlhttp://princessgarbageface.blogspot.com/2015/01/a-thing.html

The Ham Sandwich Solution

  If my genitals were smaller, I'd get more views. Life is a test. Memories and measurements. Who am I? What size underwear can I squeeze into? Should I switch to a more effective bathroom tissue? How can I be better? 

  Creating a fan base seems so simple for characters in sitcoms. What are they doing that I'm not? I'd like to see their crotches.

  But online popularity isn't always about crotches, is it? Some of us can win over an audience with a keen ability to brag and complain about on and off relationships, and dying loved ones. That's not what I want for myself. Crotches are an easier place start. I'm sorry that other people have problems, I really am, and it grabs my attention. Of course I've tried problems of my own. They don't work, they lack something, I don't know what. Your success is an inspiration, but I'm still finding my way. 

  Where am I? A blog? Why don't I keep a private diary? Am I gay? It all leads back to genitals, of which mine are robust. I'll never be a Victoria's Secret model, but if I tuck some things in a bit, it could be entertaining. I need a support system no matter what I choose. My stuff is heavy. It's deep. I want to get it out there, but I can't do it myself. 

  I slave away constantly trying to be liked. A woman's work is never done..  Unless she uses her assets. I posted a toilet pic on Facebook two years ago, and it was the most magical day ever. People laughed, some cried, and it was all so wonderful! I'll forever remember that as the day I was reported. The day that ultimately changed the course of my life. I was reborn from the ashes of my pre-potty existence, and plunged into an abyss of revelation. In the human mind, toilets are directly linked to the undercarriage. The laughs, the cries, and the reporting, had nothing to do with my humorous throne. It was my genitals all along. My artfully concealed crustables alluring the population from a shallow bowl in my wash closet. Had the truth of my size been exposed, I wouldn't still be here today. 

  Deception, deschmeption. I want to feel that way again. The thrill of unworthy acknowledgement, my spine chilled sweat staining my extra sweater, the anxiousness to click every comment with the tips of my jittery fingers! You might not know what it's like, with your slim-fitted jeans, labial degeneration, and perpetual shower of spring rain. Social media can be tough for a dried up jumbo muffin. I almost never get famous. My followers are few and brutal, and I have to take pictures of my face. My face for christ's sake! Could you imagine? It's juvenile. 

  I'm an adult, damn it. I can't keep losing friends on account of my profile. It's testing my humility not to flash them. If only I had full use of my lower body, I'd get views like poop at a pig farm. Instead, my experience has been more like standing next to the world at a urinal. Why me? 

  All I ever wanted was hypothetical internet money. It's been a long journey, and so far my pockets are packed with unprofitable flaps. Should I not dare to continue to dream? Should I lay down my arms, and not reach for the stars? Should I always give up? Is nothing possible? Is everything that I believe in a lie? 

  I don't know. You decide. But I can tell you one thing, the answer might surprise you.