Nearly two and a half years ago, I decided to write a silly poem.

It was in reaction to poetry I had been exposed to through several mediums: the “Just In” section, various poetry websites I had visited out of curiosity (replace that with “temporary insanity”), and postings made by reviewers. I read their poems, wrote polite reviews, then sat back and began to chuckle. Were these people serious? Was such depression and hopelessness possible? The sheer volume of cutting poems and I-hate-everyone-especially-my-parents poems confirmed what I had feared: teenage angst poetry was a plague upon us all. Yet the most disturbing facet of this disease were the reactions and reviews. How were these poems considered legitimate works of art? It was then I realized, “Hey! I can do this!” I decided to test my mettle against the poetry section of FictionPress. Could my cheap imitations fool them? Only a test would tell.

I called it “My Burning Torment”, created a pseudonym (“GothChicka”, and posted it. Here it is in its entirety:

“My soul

Is like a furnace

Burning

Burning

With the glow of a thousand suns

Engulfing my very essence

Why won't it stop

Why won't you love me

I ask these questions

Since yesteryear

Take me now, Satan

I wish for your bittersweet kiss

On my forsaken brow”

As you can plainly see, I tried to include as many ridiculous statements as possibly, trying to give the reader the benefit of the doubt. Note that my soul “Is like a furnace/Burning/Burning/With the glow of a thousand suns”. So on and so forth.

I had written another poem, “Life’s Ironic Torture”, which I also uploaded. This I had written as an afterthought – the phrase “Like the blood flow of a thousand fetuses” was too hilarious not to set to paper – and posted it as well. Giving them both obnoxious summaries in order to not let them pass under the radar of FP (caps and all), I sent them into the winds of the Internet. I did not expect much reaction to these poems – perhaps a “Nice try, asshole” or two, but none of the adulation my peers had received. Retiring for the evening, I snuggled under my blanket and had one last chuckle before slumber hit me with its sack of bricks. My last wish was that P.T. Barnum would be right.

Oh, how he was.

Over the next few days the reviews began to pile up. I was congratulated on my poetic nuances and the ability to truly describe how I felt in “good detail”. The crowning jewel, however, was having “My Burning Torment” described as “passionate and powerful”. My other poem had similar success (“I feel the same way”), and paved the road for the next batch of poems.

So it continued. Over the next year and a half I wrote them intermittently; 2005 passed with the first new poem being written in November. During this process I began to write my poem titles and summaries in Internet speech (lyk like, and so on). At the same time I became more daring in my attempts, as I really wanted someone to finger me for the liar I was. To do this I began to insert outrageous phrases, like “My art/Is tantamount/To society’s faggotry”. My efforts were in vain: my small circle of fans craved GothChicka, and all her addicting similes and phrases. At some point I began to appreciate and even like the poetry I was producing – I still think “Drug Useing” is a half-decent poem.

The last poem I wrote was entitled “My Haert Iz On Da Flor”. Here it is:

“My heart rests upon the floor

Pulsating like a pulsar

I reach for it, blood-covered fingers cracking

Breaking under pressure

I squeeze the pumping organ,

Hold it close to my chest.

“Get in, get in” I screech.

Pressed ‘gainst my bosom, it laughs.

Slips between my grasp

Explodes on the floor.

My blood, my life seeps into a drain

Down to hell with the rest of mankind.”

“My Haert” is, in my opinion, the Parsifal of GothChicka’s 22-poem body of work. I feel it exemplified the strange statements she so often made – “Pulsating like a pulsar” –, coupled together with some funny images: “My heart slips between my grasp/Explodes on the floor”. It also fulfilled my secret desire, the one driving force behind my work: everyone would realize the truth behind GothChicka.

I spent the next couple of weeks musing over the future of GothChicka. Had she gone too far? Had she said all that needed to be said? The solution: post a small confession to my loyal readers, and be done. It was with a heavy heart that I did this – GothChicka had become a near-constant source of amusement. Whenever I found myself depressed our angry, I read a few of the poems and was soon laughing hysterically. It was then I realized the truth: people wrote angst poems to make themselves feel better. It wasn’t about what people thought of them, or how many reviews they got. Learning to make oneself feel better is the subject of countless books and other communication mediums. GothChicka taught me a valuable lesson – you could write the worst poem in the history of literature, but if it makes you smile, or at least feel a little better, then you’ve done yourself well.

Godspeed, GothChicka.

If you want to read the GothChicka poems, you can find her at: