Oh boy! Will I get published in the New Yorker???!?!??!

I used to write a lot of poetry. Seriously. I wanted to be a poet...a writer. When I was little I wrote my grammy a poem about angels and when she told my mom that I might grow up to be a writer, I thought she meant that I had good handwriting. The writer part of the dream still lives on (see the blog you're reading), but the poet? Well, she's busy choking on her own vomit.
I stumbled across some poetry written by that notorious ex, who broke up with me via email. He's been published in Dialogue: a journal of Mormon thought and is now teaching in Twin Falls. (Word to my friend Jenn, now officially the only good thing about Twinner).
Out of major curiosity and some undefinable urge I've had lately to dig up the past, I sneaked a peak at his "teacher profile" online. He looks puffy. Why do so many guys do that? I mean, I'm certainly fatter than when he saw me last, but, he doesn't look fat...just bloated.
Anyway, I decided to write a poem to see if I still have it. Here goes:

Lentil soup
makes me poop
I must hide my farts
when I'm in a group

Lentil soup
makes me poop

Thank you.