Amanda Palmer's Got Nothing on Me: This is the Real Worst Poem Ever From My Freshman Year of College Journal

It's a feminist poem about my period.
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It's a feminist poem about my period.

This is my serious poetry face. The key is to squint a little.

This is my serious poetry face. The key is to squint a little.

OK, so have you guys read the Amanda Palmer poem about the Boston bombings being widely touted as the "worst poem of all time"? It's called "A Poem for Dzhokhar" and I will not comment on its quality because while I know a lot of people have issues with her, I do like her music a lot -- I saw her totally slay the crowd a few years ago at Coachella and "Runs in the Family" is an amazing song that's always in my Top 25 Most Played on iTunes. 

(As a side note, I was inspired to do a little digging and find out who is truly considered the worst poet of all time and it's this guy: William McGonagall, who according to Wikipedia, "won notoriety as an extremely bad poet who exhibited no recognition of or concern for his peers' opinions of his work." I respect that.)

Anyway, I'm pretty sure neither one of those notorious poets can compete with my entry for the title of "worst poem ever," written on October 21st, 2001, when I was a brand new college freshman.

I'd spent my high school years being very FEMINIST and INDIGNANT -- sample lines from a few months earlier in my journal include "Someone used the word 'dyke' in class and it was allowed. I think I'm going to confront the teacher after class" and "Orgasms are political, no matter what anyone says." Now, for the first time, I was FEMINIST and INDIGNANT and UNSUPERVISED and MINORING IN GENDER AND SEXUALITY STUDIES.

All of this resulted in what I would now like to enter into the public canon as what I believe may in fact be the REAL worst poem ever. THIS IS TOTALLY REAL. THIS IS NOT A JOKE. I am not brilliant enough to make this up. ENJOY!

This is the actual poem in my actual journal.

This is the actual poem in my actual journal.

I don't use

feminine products

because I am not feminine

at least not when feminine means pink things with unaturally fresh odors

I am 100% hardcore

blood red and not so fresh

I'm the stain on your sheets

in your white cotton panties

I menstruate like a dog

leaving a mess where it falls

and a trail of men behind me

I am not up for pliable cotton penis instruments with super absorbency

or virtual diapers

I am neither a whore

or a child

I am not in need of cleanup

in my vagina aisle

I'm a primal motherfucking woman

and I like to drip

I like my musky scent

and my bloody-mouthed gash

chomping and squishing at intruders

THE END. Is it worse than Palmer's? Should I publish more of my bad feminist poetry? Do you have any? Send it to me at -- we'll have a contest!