Let Me Write A Limerick For You!

Hello everyone!
I have a special offer for you… yes, YOU! I’m willing to write a limerick for you! It will represent the style and content of your choice (i.e., you can decide what it’s about, how clean and dirty it is, etc.)
How do you sign up for this? Simply follow my profile on mytrendingstories.com! Visit my profile to see if you like my stuff (https://mytrendingstories.com/en/profile/nick-edinger/) If you want to see more, click the “Follow” button under my byline for this article- which requires you to make an account, of course. I’ll write fascinating articles there that might not always belong to Word Salad Spinner, but are still worth reading! After you follow me, I’ll message you and process your limerick request.
All the limericks will be posted on October 3rd, and they will all link to your profile on the website.
Limerick is a place in Ireland! I learned something new today!
To build a successful community,
don’t pass this poetic opportunity!
I make five-line musings
on ideas of your choosing,
and my rhymes are perfect (well, usually).
Message my MyTrendingStories profile if you have any questions!

Everyman’s New Story


Everyman had a sleepover;

just like you, Everyman had a mohawk

and drove his mom’s rusting minivan to Coolidge High.

His poetry assignment—

D-, see me in my office—

was now rolled and lit and served as a blunt.


The night air is outside. A horror movie,

old, plays in the background as

he and his friends sit in a circle of beds and smoke.

Their conversation is probing, serious— about Sartre,

the afterlife, the nature of choice,

what being green really means.


That’s when she says:

What is the story you want

to tell, the thing you want expressed

that no one has ever told before?

What has no one done

because they’re waiting for you to roll your dice?

Continue reading “Everyman’s New Story”

Room Rated Out Of Ten- A Poem

  • Dusty Lamp— at least dusty on the bowl on top. Billions and billions of dust mites can live there, until their god remembers them. The other lightbulb is functional: 8/10
  • Books— just the concept: 10/10
  • Book One— a murder mystery where the heroine waited for others to solve the murder for her. People praised her as a strong female character. The author reads my work: 7/10
  • Book Two— not yet read: 7/10
  • Book Three— by an author who lost his mind the same way one loses a photo frame bought on vacation: 9/10
  • Books, Four Through Seven, Unread: 4/10
  • Bed I’ve used since age six— everyone says it’s lumpy and old. The bed’s not what keeps me up at night: 7/10
  • Magnetic Breakable Creativity Toy Sphere given by old friend— when I skype someone, my hands fidget, and I take the sphere and break it and reassemble it until my fingers are as red as the pieces. One day, I’ll skype her, and thank her for the gift without using it: 10/10
  • Modest Collection of two-dollar bills— Thomas Jefferson was our greatest president. He did own slaves. Now I own him. Anyway, two is my favorite number: 7/10
  • Idea Cards for stories and poems— all my writing ideas go here. If I die, the flashcards I didn’t use will be stacked up like the bricks of a ruined castle. The older the cards, the more important it will be not to disturb them: ?/10
  • Free Writing Journal— black, uncomfortably rectangular. For ten minutes, I write whatever comes to my mind. It’s a judgment-free zone: 7/10
  • Five-year-old Mac laptop— Everything breaks on me, except for what I use the most: 8/10
  • iPod Touch— Some tape holds the protector screen together. When I use this, I hold it like it’s a black bar over my eyes, hiding me from the rest of the world. It’s ruining my eyes: 10/10
  • Water bottle— A tall, blue cylinder. Ordered oasis in an ordered, barren room: 5/10
  • Stretchy arm bands designed for physical therapy— drooping, dried and dyed entrails: 2/10
  • Clock-radio used since eighth grade— red face, stocky build. Like the annoying friend who stays in your group for years: 5/10
  • Box of Maybe One Day Useful Tools— By tools, I mostly mean tape: 9/10
  • Bluetooth keyboard inside Box of Maybe One Day Useful Tools— purchased when neck problems arrived in my life. It’s straight in a way my neck should have been: 3/10
  • Harmonica gift from goddaughter— shining, evenly weighted, unused 6/10
  • Bowl of Marbles used to keep me out of bed during daytime but they never worked because I keep having to get up before I can scatter them on the bed to make sure I don’t fall back into it but I always will because there’s no mental power great enough to circumnavigate the waste that your existence is 4/10
  • Duct Tape— whenever you try to rip off a piece, the edge stays. You rip off more, and the edge stays thick and immovable as you treat away the rest of a roll. Like the past, or maybe a tree stump— 8/10
  • Scotch Tape— held inside what looks like a repurposed half of a dinosaur skull. Just a plastic one, of course: 10/10
  • Six-in-One tool given by grandfather— he won it at the family White Elephant game, but he knew I needed it. That’s him, all his life: 8/10
  • Notebook full of old writing— I should be generous and forgiving to my past self: 4/10
  • Original Story “Stand-Up Night in Solitary Confinement”— The paper is rough and crusty: 8/10
  • Original Story “The Chamberlin Tales,”— the paper is crumpled: 2/10
  • Original Story “Retmentis”— the paper is creased: 7/10
  • Original Story “22 of Us” –- the paper is whiter, never damaged by sunlight: 6/10
  • Original Story “23 of Us”— The paper is simulated on the computer: 7/10
  • Original Stories Never Written— These sprout from our mind unless we cut them off and serve them for dinner. They grow and grow and grow until we die, at which point they explode: Nothing/10
  • Original Screenplay “New Caveton”— The ink is dry: 5/10
  • Original Play “Best Story Ever”— The ink is smudged: 8/10
  • Original Story “The College Station All-Male Feminist Union” – the ink is fresh: 9/10
  • Green Storage Box— A treasure chest, filled with what last century would consider riches. Forget old treasures, we should try to break open the treasure chests of the future: 5/10
  • Green Storage Box on top of previous Green Storage Box— makes the first box less special: 6/10
  • Jeans (too tight)— Easier for a camel to fit through the eye of a needle…: 3/10
  • Jeans (ok size)— The needle still stings: 8/10
  • Bag I carry for weekly meeting with friends— old, worn, black, like your grandfather: 10/10
  • Cards Against Humanity set inside of bag— like the monolith from 2001, but with dick jokes. Maybe that’s what he saw in the stars. 10/10
  • No Shame Theater Archives— All the skits, poems, rants and magic of its thirty-year history. I’m caring for something older than me: oh-god-what-have-I-done/10
  • Slacks (too small): 6/10
  • Slacks (ok size)— The good number: 9/10
  • Shirts (all of them too small)— A quilt torn to shreds: 6/10
  • Shorts (all of them too tight)— soft, stiff, blue, black, torn, new: all contained by a number: 6/10
  • Black Hoodie, too small— I once visited a high school friend. We sat on a bench and talked little. Putting on this item felt like that moment: 9/10
  • Scarf— Modeled after the one in Harry Potter, rich red and yellow: 4/10
  • Medicine/Emergency Box of Supplies— saves lives. Has saved moments: 5/10
  • Ceiling Light— I don’t notice it: 7/10
  • Dancing Dust Mites in Sunlight— a sky in the window, a galaxy on a particle: 10/10
  • Dust 0/10
  • Towel— Black and Yellow, Hawkeye logo. Over the years, it shrunk: 6/10
  • Closet— no fantasy lands in there, nor anything else worth finding: 5/10
  • Big Black Suitcase I always need when traveling for some reason— could swallow you whole: 6/10
  • Trash Can 7/10
  • Box of No Shame Theater t-shirts— too small for me. Unlike all the other clothing, these always were: 4/10
  • Blanket #1, bought for college— beautifully patterned, but too brown. Ruins the whole image: 8/10
  • Blanket #2, in my family for years— light brown, not patterned. Thick. A third parent: 9/10
  • Pillow with a groove designed to help neck condition— 4/10
  • John Quincy Adams quote on wall— “Always vote for principle, though you may vote alone, and you may cherish the sweetest reflection that your vote is never lost.” Put something on presidential-looking paper, and people will believe anything: 9/10
  • Check from work for zero dollars— a mistake from my job. But when you fight, you love, and you raise children, that’s what your gift looks like: 0/10/10
  • Change for laundry machine 5/10
  • Poster “The Empire Strikes Back”— stylized like “Gone With The Wind,” cut out from a calendar: 8/10
  • Poster “Return of the Jedi”— a hand holding a lightsaber. Always pointing up: 9/10
  • Checklist of things to do when in a depressive state— scribbled in pencil. Hard to read in a good mood, impossible in a down mood: 6/10
  • Post-it notes of advice from therapist— see above: 7/10
  • Medicine (escitalopram)— so much in white tablets, never utilized because never used: 3/10
  • Medicine (risperidone)— Little pink pills, necessary to sleep. The tinted key to the worlds of dreams: 8/10
  • Medicine (naproxen)— painkiller. Its very presence in this room… well, maybe I need another painkiller: 1/10
  • Medicine (cyclobenzaprine)— Muscle relaxer. Not another painkiller: 3/10
  • Depression— …: 0/0
  • Book Eight: 1/10
  • Library Version of Book Eight: 7/10
  • Extension Cord: Slick and thick. Makes me think dirty thoughts. Otherwise functional: 8/10
  • Window Above Desk—sometimes, I see feet outside: 4/10
  • Theater props (including, but not limited to: rope, toy gun, Phantom of the Opera mask): 8/10
  • Desk: 7/10
  • Kleenex Boxes: 5/10
  • Receipt under desk— Guttenberg’s first scribbles on a blueprint took a long hike up a mountain to end up here: 4/10
  • Flag still in container— lined with quotes from old friends. Some misspellings: 8/10
  • Copy of previous flag that friends are using: 11/10
  • Swim Towel 9/10
  • Neck and Shoulder Relaxer Device— curved and designed like it’s from a sci-fi movie. The ones where the budget is inverse to the number of ideas: 5/10
  • Sunlight— The color-changer, the world-grower, the life bringer. Too bright: 6/10
  • Shade— I need sunlight to live. But why should I spend every moment living?: 8/10
  • Looseleaf Paper: 9/10
  • Poker Set: 2/10
  • Shoebox: 3/10
  • Magic: The Gathering decks— stories disassembled and organized by moments and characters. Perhaps what all stories look like in the mind? Should be able to sell these one day: 8/10
  • Belt: 6/10
  • Internet: 10/10, with rice 10.5/10
  • Floor: 6/10
  • White Wall One: 8/10
  • White Wall Two: 6/10
  • White Wall Three: 9/10
  • White Wall Four: 4/10
  • Broken Glasses: 4/10
  • Cheap Reading Glasses: 7/10
  • Main Writing Notebook—In the front sleeve is a sheet of paper. I asked friends to write on there words to motivate me. I took it seriously, they didn’t: 10/10
  • Pen— it wrote this poem: 7/10
  • This Poem: 6/10



If you must understand her, what she tells, why the hat,

Go to the museum where half the facts are lies.

Walk to the lobby. What is it to know that in 1895,

The only two cars in Ohio crashed into each other and left these bumpers encased in glass?

Follow her velvet lines to the west wing. They expect us to believe this flag of 1830’s

France flies plain white? Now in the balcony. How did they transport an entire room

Coated in Nazi gold? Slow elevator, then third floor. She dares charge admission

To see the rope they used to hang the witches of Salem! But after you

Pass the cocaine-infused mummy in the showroom, you’ll see a

Bonsai tree,

Planted in 1626

Hiroshima, transferred here last year,


If you’re not distracted, that is,

By the diamonds Mexican scientists made out of tequila, spotlighted by the bulb rim above.


Waste of your one holiday. Outdated in the Internet age. Need a loan for just one soft drink.

The important thing to her

Is that you’ll leave this alabaster hall with all these facts

In the brain,

Where everything,

Including her,


Don’t Call Me Crazy

Yes, immediately after I talk about how motivation’s a weak reason to write, I present a poem created out of instant impetus. I read this article and, well, had some complex thoughts that soon boiled down to plain anger and derision. I took my previous writing plans for the night and shoved them aside onto the mental tracks of the runaway train the germ for this poem became. So yeah, discipline rules and motivation drools, but I don’t discourage drive when it comes to you- you might get fun stuff like this! It led to a healthy discussion with my roommate at any rate.


Don’t Call Me Crazy

by Nick Edinger

Help the Mentally Ill and don’t use the word “Crazy.”

Be a helpful ally.

Your ex isn’t “crazy”- she’s just a bit peeved.

It leaves schizophrenics and their like quite bereaved

when what they’ve been called all their lives gets perceived

with stupidity, no dignity, and some bad guys.

Help the Mentally Ill and don’t use the word “Crazy.”

I know you can do it; go ahead and amaze me!


Help the Mentally Ill and avoid saying “Insane.”

The shitlords are clever.

We told them “crazy” will now be off limits

and they called their leaders “insane” within minutes.

It’s for the same reasons this word we prohibit:

that word’s mean when it’s seen with afflicted whomevers.

Help the Mentally Ill and avoid saying “Insane.”

Keep the downtrodden from every single type of pain.


Help the Mentally Ill and don’t use the word “Stupid.”

It’s not cool anymore.

So you heard “insane” and “crazy’s” not in vogue

and you called Kim Il Sung “stupid” like a little rogue.

Well you’ll find I’m not stopping, I’m still at the prologue

on this quest where we best the privileged folk we abhor.

Help the Mentally Ill and don’t use the word “Stupid.”

And no, you motherfuckers still can’t say “retarded.”


Let me make this real simple for egregious cumsluts

who keep hurting our friends.

You may not say “mad,” not even in anger,

nor “weird,” “fool,” “silly,” “nuts,” “wacky,” “daft,” “bent,” “strange,” nor

“deranged,” “demented,” “delirious,” nor a “danger,”

nor anything that’s your hating and insulting trend.

Let me make this real simple for egregious cumsluts:

When you think of them, keep your mouth quiet. Mute. Mum. Shut.


Help everyone out and don’t call them “Mentally Ill.”

What’s so ill about them?

They don’t need medicine, laws, or therapy,

all they need is no mention from friend to buddy

that’s spoken with smiles- but we know that just can’t be.

What’s that? Tone? It’s for phones, right? I don’t care, still condemned.

Help everyone out and don’t call them “Mentally Ill.”

What’s ‘Hy-per-bolly?” It doesn’t sound like it’s goodwill.


What do you mean you’re not satisfied with what we do?

We simplified the goal.

‘Stead of teaching depression’s more than “boo hoo,”

or saying schizophrenics won’t blow up your school

or ask for humanity for the ones that must drool,

we popped the zit, now can quit and ignore growing moles.

What do you mean you’re not satisfied with what we do?

We won- we got people to stop talking about you.


I hid you under the bed, and things improved greatly.

Why’d it take everyone years

To do what I did to impress my Facebook

friends and both the anxious people that I know? Look,

I know suicide rates haven’t changed, and our crooks

still need help.. so I’ll yelp about alphabetic fears.

I hid you under the bed, and things improved greatly.

Before you speak, just know… you shouldn’t call me crazy.

Song of Astronaut

I guess I’m just in a poetry-posting mood. Here’s another one, less esoteric, more serious. Also, here‘s the poem it’s based on.

Song of Astronaut

By Nick Edinger


For seven hours, I float in burnt-steak smell

Because the tear in our solar array

Cuts power to our station. While I dwell

In space, my hands the supreme tools, I stay

Between Man’s built outpost and given world.

With foot attached to metal arm, I whirl.


The Pacific engulfs the planet whole.

Australia, California are like

The fingers on a great blue ball that bowls

Through the cosmos. The little men, their Reichs,

They cannot leave that spin with all their spite.

“We should focus on earth,” they all recite.


I turn myself, a world in a suit,

To fix again what gives this station life.

These panels, tapestries in a mosque, loot

From the sun’s core, cut her up with a knife

So her blood can course through electric gold.

This tool of man is equal to behold.


And still, I find my eyes drifting to earth,

Where nature, like advanced machines, rolls on

To fight the infection of man. Our worth

We proved when we turned all the world our pawn

In pitiful battles of countries flawed.

Was this ev’n in imaginings of Gods?


But why be king of all chaos down there

When I can focus on this honeycomb

Of a snagged circuitry and fix with care?

With last stabilizer, I turn from home

And place the hardware down in now-filled gap.

From my earpiece, I hear my partners clap.


Like boastful Sisyphus, I bask in the

Relaxed muscles: a job well done. Ocean

Beneath is packed like bedsheet over fleas,

Which I can’t reach without forward motion.

I live between my dreams and planet’s skin.

The arm, attached to me by foot, draws in.

Rime of The Foolish Edinger

So I’m on vacation right now, and had a bit of an adventure. I made a silly poem about it. I encourage you all to do this occasionally- write not for yourself, but for another person as a gift. Takes you out of your head for a while, even if the meter ends up messed up or not all the rhymes work. Such exercises remind you who you’re really writing for anyways. My family really seemed to like the poem (partially because they were involved in it), and the project gave me a break from some other stories and screenplays that eat away at my head. In fact, if anyone here has any requests for a story or a skit or a poem, I’d be happy to oblige. But that’s enough stalling. Enjoy my Coleridge parody!

Rime of the Foolish Edinger

Far back when New York Chills did blow

over Lake Skaneateles,

there was a drunk cruising the waves:

a dullard, a ninny, tactless.

He painted his waves over water

like a wild modern artist.

The Edinger boat looked like port to him-

we learned he wasn’t the smartest.

So with the engine’s snarl behind,

and a beer in his beer-soaked hand,

he accelerated and- how do I say this?

You ever take a rock to a coke can?

The Edinger boat was torn apart,

despite its previous endurance.

The drunkard looked at the sinking wreck

and realized he had no insurance.

A crew arrived later to survey the wreck-

the pontoons, the engine, the prop-

and ferried it out of Skaneateles…

forgetting the bimini top.

(You all know about bimini tops,

correct? Covers half the hull, bit

that’s like a canopy for the boat,

gives real nice shade- eh, just google it).

For eons the bimini top languished

like a mute man’s speaking wish-

surrounded by piercing zebra muscles,

bits eaten by confused fish.

There it remained until the arrival

of the city-born sons of John.

These Edingers journeyed to the small speedboat

that replaced the boat that was gone.

They jumped off the dock, swam past Dan’s boat,

acting careful not to touch;

then Sue’s boat, then raft, then the small speedboat-

beyond that there’s just not much.

There was Rob, son of John, devourer of Worlds;

there was Matt, the man of Iron.

There was Nick, who skied on one ski once,

but afterwards found himself tired.

As his brothers climbed the ladder of the boat,

Nick peered to the green abyss

to find the relic of the old pontoon boat.

And then he called “Oi! What’s this?”

Nick picked up the metal scrap and pulled,

and surfaced just once for a breath.

He dropped the wreckage and gasped for air-

no way to complete a theft.

His family applauded his deep lake find

upon return. His uncle was curious.

“If you found that, Nick, perhaps you’ll find

our lost cover, if the trip’s not injurious.”

Nick dived to the treacherous depths below,

but found no cover, just wreckage.

The family council upon the hill

then chose to test Nick’s essence.

“Nicholas, the council decrees that you

bring up the top to a dry spot.”

That’s what Nick heard. He suggested it first,

and the drinking adults replied “Why not?”

A rowboat with a rope hung to the docks,

with the walls of waves it wrestled.

Nick witnessed the dinghy and shouted out,

“This will be my questing vessel!”

Nick sprinted down the hill’s stone steps,

at the rowboat’s docking did they meet.

Nick took his grand odyssey’s first step,

and stepped right onto the seat.

For those not nautically informed, the rowboat’s

seat is quite unsteady.

You can slip and fall off like a child on a raft,

and our hero Nick was not ready.

After the laughter from the hill died down

and after Nick spat out the water,

our hero climbed back onto his steed

and sped through the lake like an otter.

An otter high of meth, to be frank-

long ago, Nick’s rowing skills died.

If the police were on patrol then,

they’d’ve given another DUI.

But Nick arrived at the wreckage site

and dived with a rope in hand

to attach the bimini top to the boat!

This was as far as Nick planned.

Nicholas climbed back on the boat-

it was harder than it seemed,

due to that insidious Faustian deal

known only as Krispy Kremes!

Nick began his journey back to the cottage,

but forgot an important factor-

due to the front rope dragging the load,

he’d have to make the back trip backwards.

With pulls that pulverized his biceps,

with no drink to make the trip sweeter,

Nick strained and pushed ‘till his shoulders gave out

and found he travelled, like, a meter.

But Nick could not give in front of his folks,

so he lifted and churned and shoved,

and looked to the hill, until he saw

two dragonflies- making love?

It looked like that, they were together joined,

and one of them kept bucking

against the other… Nick pondered this:

what’s it like when dragonflies are… hugging?

So he kept his mind on insect love,

and the exercise made the work lighter.

But when he looked up and scanned the lakeside,

it didn’t make his day brighter.

He only had arrived at the boat of Sue,

his muscles were sore and stunted.

the waves were knocking his small progress back,

and now the rowboat was flooded!

Every shift of his body brought liquid in.

And when Coleridge made that one quote;

“Water, water, everywhere,”

Nick knew he didn’t mean the boat!

It was then a savior in a kayak came,

a resident of neighborly fame.

“Is there anything I can help you out with?”

said the wonderful Lady What’s-Her-Name.

Nick only asked for a sole bucket

and explained why, in the past hour,

he rowed in place, creating only splashes

in a pitiful display of power.

So the lady brought over a bucket from Nick’s mom,

and Nick heaved the water out!

Now, instead of moving like a rock,

he could move like a brain-dead trout!

But even right here, Nick didn’t give up-

he merely reconsidered

as he looked to the slightly shallowed bottom

of a lake that was zebra-muscle-littered.

It was here an idea struck our hero

like a get-rich scheme to a hobo-

“I can’t carry the load for the boat- I’ll just carry

the boat! Like Samwise did for Frodo!”

Nick jumped back in, flooding the boat again,

and dove to where the rope held taut.

He pulled and he swam and he dragged the top

across the rocks in his great plot.

He dove and strained and surfaced for breath,

and repeated this all down the path

back to the cottage, just missing Dan’s boat

and avoiding that apocalyptic wrath.

Nick swam past the dock, safe from the muscles.

The feet until land were few.

So he heaved the bimini top out of the water,

and carried it with a “hhhhrrrrrrgggggggAAAA

The bimini top had reached the shore!

Nick ran up the hill, still coughing,

to exclaim his victory to the unwinding folks

who responded “We really weren’t watching.”

“Well, Grandma saw when you rowed in place,

and the lady’s bucket came from your mother,

but we were chatting and having our drinks.”

Then Bob said, “Did you find our cover?”

So thus I conclude this epic tale

of trial for trial’s sake

to document the folly of all of those

living Skaneateles Lake.