Poetry or Shit?
I can’t decide if writing is a craft or a purge
It’s just sometimes I get this primitive urge
(and I don’t know whether to shit or give birth.)
Braincells swell to bursting like blind mice in a bag
and bust out just like popcorn, it’s another writing jag
(I don’t know whether to swell up or sag.)
Can’t tell if I’m writing real poetry or shit
It’s hard to know the difference from right here where I sit
(I don’t know whether to bear down or quit.)
If a piece of work is shit, then it don’t need quality
To me it’s still important, even necessary
(the consequence of stopping could be very messy.)
But if I am a poet, and I give birth with my words
then I should know the difference twixt my babies and my turds
(The consequence of raising shit might be quite absurd.)
Whether crapping or creating, I really must be wary,
my children I should care for, and my turds I ought to bury
(Once upon a time I met a turd I tried to marry.)
My perceptual discrepancies have left me in a bind
I’ve carried shit around with me while babies crawled behind
(if you see me holding shit, tell me - I won’t mind)