Poems, everybody! (Or, "I expect you to quote The Wall")

So they tell me I'm a poet.

I freaking knew it. There was this dude from Nantucket, you see, and...
Well, that's a story perhaps for another time.
Right now I need to talk about the reason of rhyme.

The laddie fancies herself a poet!

I've greatly enjoyed returning to the writing community and my late-night version of poetry is finding not only a home, but also a peculiar fanbase.
I don't have the heart to tell them that I usually just get drunk and spew nonsense at my computer. I can't help that my blood-alcohol level is an emo fan. It's all a big process where I get shitfaced-wasted and then pretend I'm explaining the idea behind emotional feelings to a partially blind toddler.
I'm betting old Walt Whitman did the same thing, and Ralph Waldo Emerson. The freaks.

Here's a quick breakdown;
Step One: Whiskey.
Step Two: Write

That's as far as I usually get.
And then I wake up the next morning to an email that says "Thanks For The Submission" and I add a little What The Fuck Did I Submit to my coffee followed by reciting the Lord's "please don't be boob pics, please don't be boob pics" prayer.
Most of the time it's just poetry.
Thank the Blessed Saint Victoria, Protector of the Secret.
Praise be to the Draft Folder;
Keeper of Failed Uploads, Savior of the Slutty Selfie.

It's likely that the one or two boob pics that snuck through are what convinced them to encourage that I write a collection of poetry. If you think about it, asking that I send work on actual paper is a pretty ingenious way to ensure that I don't accidently send pictures of my tits.
They'll be pleasantly surprised to learn that I still have a Polaroid.

Used here to document the last time I was confident wearing stripes.

There's a lot about poetry that I don't understand. Like, who reads that shit? I write a few verses every single day and I still wouldn't call myself a "reader" of poetry. I hardly even read the crap I write. Also, who in the fuck still publishes collections of poetry? I mean, really, are you going to pull up Joleen Doreen's Collection of Depressing Nonsense, Volume 2 (trademarked, title pending) on your bright and shiny eReader while you're at the beach? Going to put the nice little leather-bound black book of Poems From the Dark Side of Joleen Doreen next to the toilet for light bathroom reading? If you were browsing the bargain-bin of a used paperback store, would you throw down thirty-five cents for a dog-eared copy of Even Your Name Rhymes, Joleen Doreen? (And if it was new would you pay, like, SEVENTY-FIVE cents?)

Well, dear readers, here is your chance to answer those questions and more! (Not really more, just the one question, because I don't really give a fuck about other questions.)

customer survey

I feel like a marketing tool.

I'm an adaptive person. I know how to make what I have work for me. I've been known to eat ham with a spoon.
The new-found world of creating a shareable form of self for others to buy into is absolutely fascinating in the sense that I think you're all bat-shit crazy for supporting my writing and becoming part of that very peculiar fanbase that I love so much.

I'm learning of the necessary evils of successful endeavors. How to be an old-fashioned writer in a modern world. The new tricks of a dying trade. It's a wicked corporate world of bullshit and it will curl the most poetic mind. There are very few ways to retain your dignity while literally selling your soul.

(YOU CAN SHOW YOU AGREE BY PURCHASING MY NEW STICKER)

It feels like it might be an entertaining pursuit, writing a collection of poetry. I imagine there to be a lot of chocolate on the inevitable descent into madness. To say nothing of the booze.
Oh, the booze.

What rhymes with Liver Failure?