Poetry by: Sarah Qandeel
The White Throne
For the longest time, I was ashamed of my own stools,
Whether at homes, in restaurants or my various schools,
Where “Girls Don’t Poo” was commonly said,
Like another hit song instilled in my head
But the wind blew, and something changed,
I looked down the loo, a part of me estranged.
What I realized was that I enjoyed expelling,
Thoughts on the white throne, were compelling,
The downside is, it’s an act foul smelling,
But with a smoky match, there is no telling.
“Woman, I, love to shit”, world, hear me roar.
No more tiptoeing on the hardwood floor,
Afraid of the squeak from the creaky door,
Sneaking around was truly uncalled for.
There goes, another pair,
Of my beloved, underwear.
I ask God, time and time again,
Why plague all but the men?
The monthly red scare,
A most embarrassing affair,
Of muddy pubic hair.
Seeps and pours,
The warm liquid,
Cannot be ignored.
I would beware,
And take great care,
If I were a bed, sofa, or chair.
Not For the Faint Mustach-ed
“Beauty is skin deep,” a phrase I often hear
But one thing about me, I wish would disappear.
I’ve endorsed my love handles and stretch marks,
Last Tuesday, I took Cellulite out to the parks.
My awful nail beds, don’t even bother me,
It’s my bloody mustache, which I oversee.
Tricky with weather, my upper lip sweats
Hot or cold, my whiskers resemble a pet’s.
Waxed, bleached, shaved and threaded,
No matter what I try, Tash is embedded
When I see blokes with their faint stashes,
I hear sad whispers while spreading their ashes.
“Poor lad, never got that snot catcher he always wanted”,
And here I stand, dismissing what he would’ve flaunted.