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.
Publish date:
April 23, 2013
periods, poetry, poems, bad poetry, amanda palmer, pliable cotton penis instruments

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!

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!