57. Anakin is a Commie

I only have one more poem to do for this month, so fuuuuuuck writing more about poetry. I found a one off fanfiction today for a little quickie, just to get my mind back into story mode.

Well, it wasn’t a one off. It’s a 19 chapter fanfiction, but it’s really short.

“Comrade Skywalker: Episode I: The Private Property Menace” is an expert piece of satire (I hope, I’m sure) where Anakin is given the Communist Manifesto by Obi Wan. He cuts off his Padawan braid because it’s a sign of rank, and he starts wearing a Che Guevara tee shirt.

“‘Skywalker, why are you wearing that symbol of hate?’ Mace Windu asked.

‘It’s not a FUCKING symbol of FUCKING hate!’ I cried. ‘Che Guevara fought against the racist Western exploitation of South America, you FUCKING RACIST!’” Did someone get Anakin a Tumblr?

This is surreal to read, and probably one of the best things I’ll see in a while.

“‘I don’t know, why does your FUCKING head look like a FUCKING roast chicken?”

Seriously, this is like reading a communist version of My Immortal, and for the first time, I can say I’m proud to read a fanfiction, because this is just- it’s categorized “Adventure & Romance.”


Anakin goes on to convert another Jedi, and then goes to “free” his mother from Tattooine, and this dialogue only gets better. And by better, I mean better than the prequels.

“‘Anakin, I love you, don’t do this!’ She cried, trying to use her femininity to manipulate me.

‘LIAR!’ I cried, calling on the Force to assist me in pushing Padme out the ejection port along with her decadent regalia.” Um, Anakin, Pinochet was the one pushing communists out of flying objects. Get your facts straight.

Seriously, this is just beautiful. Go read it, or you’re a pinko, commie, red scum.


That is all.


56. Poetry Month: Fan Fiction Poetry

Fanfiction poetry, it’s a thing. I’m not surprised by anything in writing anymore, anything. This blog has been like looking the devil in the eyes and realizing you’re going to hell, no matter what you do. Life becomes bleak and hopeless, also known as the month of April. What do I have to live for at this point? Booze, Fallout, sleeping, and rock, maybe girls. But yeah, where was I?

Fanfiction poetry. Let’s start with John Cena poetry from 2010s. This is the shit that inspired me to make this blog, actually, after writing a nice hermit crab essay I wrote last year.

Ode to John Cena is what happens when a ten year old with a potato salad fetish learns how to rhyme.

“Your time is now/you’re on the prowl” always evokes an audible groan from me,

“fans cheer you when you’re talking smack/they boo you when you’re acting whack,” spittin’ mad bars yo, that shit’s fire, lit fam (am I cool with the kids yet?)

“Not many people know that you’re Italian/But to me you’ll always be my prince, my stallion,” Whoa that took a weird turn, a very, very weird turn. You also broke the weird rhythm you’ve had going on, it was 4/4, 8/8, but then 12/13. Boo, weirdo, boo. The next four lines go from AA, BB, CC rhyme pattern to do DEDE, and it throws me off.

“Standing up to hypocrites by mouthing off “U Can’t See Me.” Oh no, the hypocrites will surely run in fear from this outdated meme. Wait, this was 2010, it was pre-meme, this shit is vintage.

“Ad honoring the men and woman in uniform/Who protect our country and hang theirl lves up in the air.” You heard it hear, folks, there’s a single woman in the military. No, being pedantic aside, what the hell did this have to do with shit? I don’t follow the WWE.

This poem, like everything else I’ve read this month was crap, but this was a special kind of crap.

Allpoetry.com has a fanfiction poetry article, so let’s take a look there. The Purpose of Irony is a poem about Sherlock, and it says the word so many fucking times that I want to vomit

“Dear Sherlock,

to Sherlock,


It repeats that every few lines. It’s horrible, and it’s written through the perspective of Watson. After bearing through it, you hit this weird bit,

“Isn’t it ironic,

that after all this time I still go red,?

And I have to say,

‘He wasn’t my boyfriend,

he was my flatmate,’


Repeat those threw horrid lines

“all I ever wanted,

was to call you mine.”

How do you sit down and come up with this shit? Just how, how do you sit down, think of Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman as characters from stories that are over a century old, and write poem where one has gay feelings for the other? It’s surreal when you think about it, taking someone else’s intellectual property and bastardizing it to meet your weird sexual fantasies. And then to do it so shittily, you get filled with the word Sherlock like Watson wants to be filled by Sherlock to the point where you’re sick of it.


So this is the last one I’ll be reading, because I’m mixing the two things I hate the most. Shitty poetry and fanfiction. And what better way to end it than a rhyming poem about Doctor Who!? Much better ways, but at least there’s no sex in this one. It’s just detailing a shitty Doctor Who plot (and I mean shittier than the show already is.)

“A pulsing whir began to echo.

On this sunny planet.

When the TARDIS came into view,

Amy Pond stepped out and began to fan it.”

Perfect, not even Stephen Moffet could do it better. I mean, echo and view? What words could rhyme even better!?

“It was hot, hot, hot there on the abandoned place.

 And abnormal amounts of sunflowers grew.”

Really, it was hot3? Damn, that’s really fucking hot.

Did your parents drop you on your head as a baby? Is this figurative language to you? Is this descriptive to you? Skipping this horrid middle bit, let’s get to my favorite part.

“‘Gulp.’ The noise was ominous as Amy stared.

Gone was the screwdriver.

The Doctor couldn’t use paper clips and hammers!

He wasn’t MacGyver!”

The rhyming fails miserably, there’s no rhythm, and these lines are so fucking absurd. Those last two lines come out of nowhere. This is just a shit show on every front, I don’t know what else to say, besides “go to the corner and think about what you’ve done.”

Maybe I’ll try and find furry poetry next week, and then swallow a pill cocktail and hope I don’t wake up.

55. Poetry Month: I hate myself

Today, I was given a prompt, write everything that’s “forbidden” in a poem, and so I did. And I went overboard. I announced that I’d make the best damned Tumblr poem that they’ve ever seen, and by god I fucking did it. I became everything I hate today, channeled all the energies inside of me to make one of the biggest pieces of satire that I could ever make. It really took all I could, and it’s still being edited as we speak, as I think of more clichés to put inside of it, it may be a work in progress for all eternity. But to my dying day, this will be my most shameful magnum opus.



She was gone,

Like pallid moondrops they fell,

the droplets of scarlet velvet from my

alabaster skin, and my austere aura announced

au revoir.

She was gone,

They fell like passionate tropical rains

because of the shards of Whiskey glass,

and the golden heaven spared me from my misery.

She was gone,

left me sitting in the sand while the vast ocean let the

shore unsuccessfully soothed me from my suffering.

She was gone,

never to return, taking a piece of my soul along

with my heart that has ceased its romantic rhythm.

She was gone,

and now my only friends were a burning camel,

the pleasure pills being forced down my throat, and a

man from Tennessee, offering me liquid gold.

She was gone,

like the blood dripping from my clenched fist,

the Zelda to my F. Scott,

the unnamed woman to my Shakespeare,

the shotgun to my Hemingway.

She was gone.”

(I swear to god if this gets plagiarized then I have nothing to live for)

What can be said about this? Well, it’s a representation of all the shit I constantly see regurgitated, so what does it say about the world? Well, it says the world is shit when it comes to poetry. Sometimes you find a corn kernel amongst the shit that writes amazing poetry, but right now, right now I wrote Wattpad. Not what I saw on Wattpad. I wrote motherfucking Wattpad.

As I write this I am on the brink of sanity, I’m tired, I’ve been writing poetry and working on projects, I had to help with children, and I just finished Passover. I swear to god if I actually make it to Friday, then I’m going to treat myself this weekend.


Oh, and I also made a new Twitter, so if I ever get a good following, you can follow me @jmverlaat. Maybe I’ll talk about my own writing on there some day,


if I ever actually get anything popular,


oh god.

54. Poetry Month: Wattpad Poetry – Edge and Romance

As of writing this, I am officially done with one week’s worth of poems, so still not dead. Let’s see if I can survive poetry month. Not because of the poems I’m writing, but because of the ones I’m reading.

Did you know Wattpad, my mortal enemy, has a poetry section? I didn’t. I’m not surprised, and I’m not even disappointed, I’m just saddened by the fact. I also found out that Milk and Honey is published on there, by someone who’s not the author which I can only imagine is illegal, but hey, this is Wattpad, who gives a fuck? Not me, Milk and Honey can rot in hell.

Now, I’ve chosen two collections from there, and I’ll choose a few poems from each to make fun of. Fucking collections, one of these has over 100 poems in it. Do these asses actually fancy themselves Shakespeare? Because it seems they do. The three collections are: Letters to No One by Sissystuff (so these are written by a trap?) and Unsent Letters by Kyotski. I will give all three of these people credit, bcause they’ve gone a step above and beyond Tumblr poets by not using initials as their pseudonyms.

Duo is a poem in Letters to No One which fails in its first three lines. It’s a rhyming poem, yet it fails in rhyming, there’s no form: we start with a three line stanza, but then it’s two lines stanza until somewhere near the end where it switches up, and the last stanza is a single line that rhymes with no other lines. The rhyming is a joke, because some stanzas don’t even end up rhyming. Some bad couplets are: growing and mourning; open and serpent; twice and tries; a triplet of time, kind, and mind (mind was used in a couplet before and time in a couplet after); tell and time; dine, sign, and mimes; laughing and humming; end and hand; and finally, just checkmate. I just realized that those were most of the couplets in the poem. The poem doesn’t tell a story so I can only assume it’s a lyric poem, but it actually fails at that too, because it’s too nonsensical, a lot of the “poetic” images don’t make sense. You can subvert a metaphor or simile to make it unique or make the reader think (I can rhyme better than her,) but somethings make no sense whatsoever. “desert of dying river sails” make’s as much sense as a “fire made of water.” I’ve read this single poem too many times, and I can’t piece it together, the title doesn’t help me understand, the only thing I can think of is it’s about heartbreak, but not even that is clear. “You draw curtains of potent demise/has your wise one left? All covered in lies?” These lines hurt my brain to think about, and I’m physically cringing reading this. Also, when you want to rhyme, -ing doesn’t always go with –ing. Foresting and walking can’t be using in a poem, hiking and walking can. It’s also about the flow. Can I go back to Tumblr?

I skipped ahead to Novem, the ninth poem, and I nearly laughed aloud. It’s literally two lines. “Don’t wait until you become weak and vulnerable/walk away while you’re strong.” Did you fucking become Lao-tzu out of nowhere? That’s not a goddamned poem, it’s two lines so there’s no substance, and you’ve got no poetic language. You failed because you didn’t even try.


Unsent Letters is made up of 175 six line “poems” written like letters. They all start with “Dear X” and end with “Your friend/regards/some-other-ending Y.”

Each one is titled “Letter” and their number.

Letter 11 shows a complete lack of poetic language, and six lines is plenty of time to throw in at least one thing that’s poetic. “You set me off free./Into the wind and off to the skies./But you stayed there waiting for me to return./Which I never did.” It’s so boring and generic that I could buy this fucking poem at Wal-Mart.

Letter 69 is not sexual in the slightest, which is a giant let down. I guess laughter is something foreign to this “poet.” “Speck of freedom to you was./Not having me around hoping./That we will stay the same forever./When all you wanted was change.” No rhymes (thank god,) no imagery, no poetic language, and every line ends with a period, meaning there’s no flow, even though that’s what was intended. This falls flat on every front.
Letter 132 is another lost love poem. If I make a drinking game out of this, then I can put myself out of my misery via alcohol poisoning. “We grew up together./And all I had was you./But you had the world in your hands./Now I have the world./But not you.” What? When did this happen? Why don’t you have them? When did you switch holding the world? Why do you use periods on every line? Unsent Letters isn’t even laughably bad. I’m sad now.

These poems are horrible, no redeeming qualities about them. They’re not poetic, endearing, they don’t subvert tropes or tackle issues, there’s nothing interesting about them, yet here we are. Both of these were in the top 10, with Letters for No One being #1 at a time, with 916,000 reads, while Unsent Letters has 114,000 reads. Most poets die before they get recognition for amazing poetry, but these schmucks on Wattpad are bringing nothing new or good to the table, and encapsulating the masses. I’ll call it the Milk and Honey effect, be as generic and non-poetic as you can be, and your poetry will make it big with the youth market, because all that matters is edge and romance.

53. Poetry Month: Not Dead Yet

As some writers may know, this month is the bane of many of my friends, and a nuisance to me. April, also known as National Poetry Writing Month, or hell, is the month where some masochists undertake the task of writing 30 poems in April. It’s a contest or something, but I happen to be a student in a class that is forced to do it as an assignment. I couldn’t care less about poetry, but in honor of this horrible month, I’ll be reviewing only poetry.

Only poetry.

I don’t think I’m surviving April.

We’re returning to my favorite type of poetry for April’s debut: Tumblr poetry.


“but darling” is a poem by C.T., and I don’t think it’s a title, but it’s the only thing centered to the left into the poem. It has an odd form with no function, and I don’t get it. I also don’t get why we can’t let these stupid pseudonyms die. There’s probably dozens of C.T.’s out there how the hell am I going to know which is which? None of them even have unique voices.

“In the end you’ve got to be your own hero…everyone’s too busy trying to save themselves.”

Yeah, damn those firefighters, using tax payer dollars to save themselves from fires. We need reform. And damn those therapists, taking money from patients just to talk about how their Mercedes is in the shop. Oh and especially fuck those people trapped in relationships, feeling guilty about leaving because they’re partner is (depressed/suicidal/abusive/etc.), they’re obviously just in it for the sex. Go fuck yourself, idiot, some people, believe it or not are actually selfless. I’m not, but some people are.


The next poem, also untitled, is about love. Because love poems aren’t completely overdone, right? It’s by someone called k.p.k., and it’s just flat out horrible. Just bad. It’s not poetic, its subject matter isn’t interesting or fresh, and it does nothing to subvert the fact that it’s a cliché.

“it was to think that I would not know you by the feeling of your heartbeat against my back.”

This reeks of wanderlusted hipster that wants to be some edgy artist, probably in Paris. And if your partner has a heartbeat that you can feel through their chest and your back, then they might want to visit a cardiologist.


The final poem is also by a kpk, but this one doesn’t have periods separating the letters, so I’m assuming they’re different people. This poem also has no title, noticing a trend?

Also a love poem. Hate it. It’s all centered to the right for no good reason. Form is fine if you have a fucking reason for using it.

The “poet” claims they have nothing to offer, they can’t sing to their love, paint them pictures, or play an instrument for them. Someone should tell the “poet” that they can’t write for their love either. And so they say that they’ll brush the knots from their hair, and be good to them. Wow, being good to your beloved. What a novel concept. Pull your head out of your ass, idiot.