A Shitty Poem

Number 7, no prompt — however, after filling some three and a half pages with thoughtful, poetic attempts, I was met with severe mental and artistic constipation (as seems to be the case every April, at some point). It follows that this one came to me as simply and purely as it did (no draft required):

 

You can never know

dear reader

whether I wrote this poem

on the toilet.

 

How does that

make you feel?

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