Bathroom Struggles

He sat on the toilet, constipated

with injustice, a recurring problem of

indigestion. His stomach, the incurable

conscience, had failed to disintegrate

the tenacious chunks of humanity and

was flooded with heartburning lies that

remained ridiculously untouched by

the enzymes of righteousness. In vain,

he pushed a little harder and his

intestine-long principles writhed and moaned

like a mistreated beast: bitter complaints

towards the unhealthy diet that had

tortured his metabolism ever since

he abandoned his passions and idealisms

and dreams that used to illuminate his

world—the world prior to this perpetual

stomach ache. With each muscle

contraction he gritted his teeth and cursed

vulgarly when the worms inside his

body retracted ruthlessly and taunted him with

regular reminders of the things he ate. Eventually,

after nearly an hour of sitting and trying, his

determination melted into tiny beads of

sweat that covered his forehead and dripped

down the side of his face and he

reached for the toilet paper

in solemn despair and he

flushed away his unstarted business along

with pieces of tissue stained with dried

hopes, down down down into the pipes.

I woke up this morning and as I started at the toilet, I decided that I shall write a poem about constipation. Don’t you just hate the long minutes during which you sit on the toilet pushing as hard as you can to clear out the nasty stuff? And I thought, hey, this can actually be an extended metaphor.

Yeah, I know, I know, it’s kind of gross. Good thing I didn’t include the asshole imagery. (It was meant to be a swearword at the end.)

 

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One comment

  1. slpmartin · August 25, 2011

    A metaphor that I had not considered.

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