Write the worst poem you can.

I'm great at poems
Im super good at em
I eat lotsa foams
Im spitting out phlegm
Can I go to that amusement park
I really want to go to that ride of shark
I'm great at poems

123
i see a tree
456
eating bricks
789
I like to climb.
Cliffs without my glaaaaasses

It jumped
It bumped
It crashed
It bashed
It was awesome
It was quite dumb
It was barbecue sauce

i don’t care about potatoes
i still eat them like tomatoes

he doesn’t care about bananas
he still smashes them like cabanas

she doesn’t care about onions
DONKEY GET OUT OF MY SWAMP

(if you got that you’re a real one)

We are the rose gold sheen on top of mayonnaise in the sunset:
fleeting and insignificant.

I am super cool
I am really super very cool
I can eat good foods

@yubbies21 I just love your poem so much.


here's two poems for the day:

what are you even talking about

type type type type
words, wow repetition, words
do you know what's
more boring than
writer's block; poems
about writer's block.
but you can make it
more interesting by
adding a weird metaphor
observe: my brain
is a hurricane drank-up
by Poseidon, used for
breakfast coffee, and
ever since that day,
I think I drowned, what
else could explain the
lack of coherent thought?


when in doubt,
set your poems on fire.

everything is forest fires,
even winter became ashes, forgotten too long
in the toaster, we're all rolling
trying to remember what number
to call when the world is on fire, and one day
the clouds became smoke, and the lie
became smoke, and then your words became
smoke; nothing here to see except
coughed up flame-residue, i'd say
it's all alright, but it's more interesting
to imply destruction.

Pigs are blue,
So are you.
I am awesome,
But not you.
Sunsets are red,
Eat a shed.
This is great,
Fall for my bait.
I am spectacular.

Roses are blue
Violets are red
I've used the wrong hue
I need to go to bed.

my tears fall downwards
with gravity
onto my My Chemical Romance sweater.
it is my favorite sweater to cry on.

the fibers of my favorite
My Chemical Romance sweater
are made of hell, and i wear it because
i think i like the pain.

I hear a raven croaking, saying,
croak
and in that croak i hear myself bleeding

Spoiler

I really like MCR ok but I'm making fun of my emo phase you know

There's a story in everything, there's an enigma in every story.

Drinking a glass of water is not as easy as it seems.

Joe thought otherwise.

Little did he know what it takes to achieve it.

Drinking a glass of water is not everyone's cup of tea.

Joe was out on the street when he wanted a glass of water.

But there was no glass on the street.

Neither a fountain of water.

He was hunting for some water as he was all alone on the street.

He met this gorgeous lady whom he requested for a glass of water.

The glass of water was just an excuse, he wanted to date her since he was 2.

She invited him to her house but offered him a bottle instead.

Betrayed and hurt he was, he was expecting a glass not the bottle.

And then he committed suicide.

Spoiler

I wrote this few years ago. A deliberately tasteless nihilistic joke that pretends to be smarter than it actually is. I remember many reviewers fumed at this poem for how tasteless it was lol.

only ceiling fans really know what hurricanes feel like
and i'd tell you what that means, if i knew what day of the month
the fourth of july ended, but we're all spinning in circles this summer
and no one knows when things start or begin or if there's even
something else to do besides staring at ceiling fans and wondering why
only ceiling fans really know what hurricanes feel like -

I don't really care about craftsmanship
or craftswomanship, whatever
theres a jagged red line under-
-neath most of what im Writing,
because I make decisions at random
blue eggs on long legs
pointlessly sensual so i can come across as
mature and interesting
What was this poem
all about again?

123
i see a tree

----------------------------

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@Liminality I love that xD

[Aug(u)st]
You are the month of August, dear
Too little summer,
Too little autumn,
And I can't help but wonder
Where all my time has gone.
Don't leave me until the leafs fall
I've grown too attached to waiting
I'd hate to miss the season's changing.

Edit: poem 2


Iii. Roman numerals are relative
Predictive text is almost poetry
Except people are so critical of
Robots nowadays, and just grumps
So you have a good time in your mailbox