You think you know tough?
Think you’ve been through hell?
Have you ever been stuck on a toilet inside Taco Bell?
Your crunchy quesadilla thought out of its bun
Turned to fire liquid, uncontrollably runs
Cements you to your seat, now a porcelain gun
My God, there’s no more tissue, your hell hath begun
You wriggle in your turmoil, you writhe and you squeal,
You beg for it to end, Jesus take the wheel
The thought makes you stop, and it all becomes real
What kind of God would make you miss fourth meal?
Third meal now feels a century ago,
It was just a soft taco and quesarito
Sauced with a packet marked Diablo
From you, like a river, it continues to flow
At the time, it was delish, completely gourmet
Describing taste like a modern Hemmingway
Melted cheese dancing through a spicy ballet
Now someone’s knocking, “Sir, are you okay?”
You’d beg for a roll, you’d practically yell
Until you did catch that sulfuric smell
What you then saw, you could never dispel
Red cloven hooves, from his shoes they did swell
Demonic horns, made of Doritos, rise
The Devil transforms in front of your eyes
The friendly employee, just a disguise
You might never leave this taco franchise
“What must I give for you to spare a roll?”
You manage to ask, shaking on the bowl
Wet hot flatulence losing self control
He only says, “Yo quiero your soul”
Could this be real, or is it just a dream?
Did someone poison your crunch wrap supreme?
Your ungodly squirts become more extreme
Clogged now the toilet, your soul must redeem
Maybe a slogan you could get across
Like wake up and live, but you just Shit Más
Cure for the common meal seems at a loss
Since you can now feel the taste of hot sauce
You beg for your soul, you try to debate
“My life to tacos, I will consecrate
Every single meal, the bell on my plate
What have I done to deserve this damn fate?”
“Your most callous sin you made on a whim”
He says, as the water breaches the brim
In the brown water, your poor testies swim
“And from here your fate only gets more grim
“You have proven to be most improper
Last fortnight you were a fast food stopper
Could have come here for Cinnabon poppers
But you went next door and bought a Whopper
“Taco Beelzebub has come for you
With revenge so sweet, I call it fondue
It kicks your ass, so you don’t misconstrue
The power of the Devil’s poojitsu”
Nothing left to say, you feel you could cry
Upon this throne, your surrender is nigh
Since no amount of bleach could purify
The wreckage your rectum must rectify
Your nine layer dip has reached denouement
You pull up your pants to meet your fate’s dawn
Opening the stall, as to not drag on
You realize that the Devil is gone
Was it imagined or maybe a prank?
Despite the fact that you really do stank
And you just spewed like a broke septic tank
To the employee, you decide to thank
As you emerge from your stalled bungalow
The lesson you learn: you reap what you sow
Your soggy brown pants, a gift to bestow
Devoted, you call, “See you tomorrow”
Find yourself a writers group. If you can’t find one, start one. Surround yourself with supportive writers who are trying to achieve the same goals as you. It’s hard as a writer being the only one who believes in you.
True love is a group of writers giving you honest feedback on your work. People who want to see you grow, and who want to grow from your knowledge and perspective. That’s special.
You will learn just as much about writing by critiquing the work of others as you will by having your work critiqued. If you can help others improve their work, you can do the same for yourself.
In our group, the author isn’t allowed to talk during critique. You aren’t there to debate or explain what you meant; we all read your work – you’re here to listen.
Of course, you can’t always listen to everyone’s critiques because you might edit your piece into oblivion. But when there is a consensus among the group that something should change, they’re usually right.
When someone’s critique on your work resonates with you as true – that’s powerful. That’s you becoming a better writer.
Believe me, you want to hear the honest criticism from a writers group before you hear it from reviewers or readers.
No lie, I bake pastries for my writers group every week. They call me the Muffin Man. They expect it now, I’m almost scared what might happen if I show up muffinless.
In the 5 years I’ve been attending this writers group, I’ve met some of the best, most supportive friends I’ve ever had. We socialize, have a group chat, go on writing retreats. My life and writing are better because of them. I wish the same for every writer out there.
James P. W. Martin 