I don’t want to move.
I’m in such a slump.
All I want to see
Is that lovely lady lump.
I passed a pill bug that was stuck on its back, and without thinking, I bent over and flipped him. If it could talk, it would have probably thanked me, but I felt really good about it anyway. That’s why I think I should be the next president of the United States.
The name's Tim. Nice to meet you, maybe.
I play guitar, sing silly songs, write stuff, draw shitty pictures and make people on the Internet mad on a professional level. I drink a lot of tea and write letters to pen pals. I also think about death a lot.
There’s a student poetry reading at my school soon, and I want to write something for it. Any suggestions for a topic?
Two expecting mothers.
One baby born.
One parent’s heart leaping.
The other heart, torn.
A haiku about not wearing underwear
Doing laundry now.
Went commando, feel a breeze.
Let the boys hang loose.
If ever ye mouth the foul word “ships”
Or “OTP” crosses your teenage lips
I curse you one thousand years bad luck
So help me god I don’t give a fuck.
“Heaven Is a Place”, by Timothy Whyte
Heaven is a place where everything is made out of Swiss Cake Rolls,
And it rains Sweethearts, even when Valentine’s Day isn’t coming up,
And when babies cry,
their tears taste exactly like root beer.
And in every video game store,
there are only Super Nintendos,
and the only games that anyone sells is Earthbound
And Chrono Trigger
And Tetris Attack
And Super Bomberman 2.
Heaven is a place where no one has body odor,
and there is unprotected wifi everywhere.
The fastest wifi.
So fast, it almost seems like you’re watching porn in realtime.
Heaven is a place where everyone has any porn account they want.
Heaven is a place where no one smokes cigarettes,
But instead, just chews those sticks of gum that are shaped like cigarettes.
Heaven is a place where no one greets you with a handshake.
Only hugs.
Even the homeless.
And the homeless are only homeless because they like the adventure.
People are not hungry for food.
They are only hungry for love and passion.
Everyone can play guitar moderately well, if they wish, and
No one walks around playing “Seven Nation Army” over and over.
That’s what Heaven is like.
And all of your loved ones are there.
Even your liked ones are there.
Even the ones you didn’t like.
You don’t have to talk to them, though.
Just don’t be rude.
Heaven is a place where you and I are together.
Even if it’s just in spirit, we’re together.
We no longer want, or need, but simply… are.
“Burrito (True Love)”, a poem by Timothy Whyte
Burrito.
Why would you…
Burrito, listen to me.
You knew I have a date in ten minutes.
Why would you do this to me?
I’ve never known gas such as this before.
The wrath of the underworld bubbles within me.
Screams of demons are eking out my rear end.
Burrito, listen, I’m begging you, please.
This is not fair; I do not deserve this.
Tell me your demands. I’ll do anything, please,
I’ll comply, I’ll comply! Make the gas go away!
Cast the demons from my butt, rid them for good.
Please hurry, burrito, undo the damage you’ve done.
I fear that my date will arrive very…
*doorbell rings*
She’s here. I’m dead.
I’m dead I’m dead I’m dead.
Nothing has prepared me for such humiliation.
Burrito, you fool, you’ve ruined everything!
She’ll never agree to go out with me again!
Okay, fine, playing it cool. Just gonna clench.
Nothing but Silent But Deadlies from here on out.
As soon as I open the door, however,
One slips past my buttcheek defense and rips.
I consider calling haz-mat to deal with the smell,
Afraid to look up at my date’s reaction.
To my surprise, she says all but two words:
“Nice one! As she lets one rip herself.
Haiku about pizza deliverers.
Oh, you want a tip?
Here’s a tip: “Stay in school, kid.”
Gimme my pizza.
Haiku for hitting on someone at a funeral.
You come here often?
Oh… I see… That’s very sad.
Sorry for your loss.
The fuzz from my amplifier soon drowns out the crowd.
The feedback splits eardrums; distortion gets loud.
I wield my great pick before things get heavy,
Unsure if the audience is anxious or ready.
With one single strum, the house goes up in flames.
The roof is on fire, and everything’s changed.
Now three fee off the ground, I continue to float
As I sing my rendition of “Row, Row, Row Your Boat”.
Soft grunge,
Warm grunge,
Little ball of grunge,
Happy grunge,
Sleepy grunge,
Still don’t know what the fuck it is.
“You Are Extremely Cute”
A poem by Timothy Whyte
You are extremely cute.
I’m sure you get this a lot
In your normal, everyday cute life,
But hear me out: When I say it,
I mean it so much more than everyone else.
When others describe your big, blue eyes
As beautiful lakes of calm, still waters,
I would say they’re more like swimming pools
Filled with floaties and other pool toys,
And whiny little kids who pee in the water.
Any boy who comes up to you and says
That your body was sculpted by the gods,
I would disagree with, and say instead,
“Girl, it looks like someone made you on an Etch-a-Sketch,
But really really took their time on it.”
He says you’re beautiful, I say you’re extravagant.
They say you’re stunning, but I’m literally stunned.
A million young men line up to tell you
How near to perfection everything is about you.
Me? Personally, I just think you’re extremely cute.
