V

Month: December, 2016

Immortal Gwen Stacy

Falling from the sky,
Far within reach.
I miss my shots,
I miss my webs.

When all hope is lost,
And all tears are shed,
I will jump off this ledge
Not to give up,
But to catch you with my arms this time.

before i eat

Lingering thoughts
As I slurp my noodles.
Knowledge, I crave,
Sometimes, I loathe.
Another slurp of your favourite noodle.

About the Author

The Coiner was born on 17xx in Whaaat, XY. Widely known as the time travelling poet, he has fucked up lives more than you can ever imagine. The reason as to why his writing career has become so successful continues to boggle the minds of world renowned analysts. He died 65 million years ago, along with the dinosaurs. One night, he spilled beer all over the control panel of his time machine and was sent to the beginning of the end of the Cretaceous Period. However, a number of cults claim that he is still alive, as he was sent to The End of Time instead, and experiences all of time simultaneously, now being omnipresent in the form of a Gluggenshlapp. 

Meanderthal

/mēˈandərTHôl/

Noun

1. Species that is 0.3% less than that of a human being whose intelligence oscillates between stupid and smart (mostly stupid) in a manner so unpredictable and unbearable one deems them undeserving to be given a chance to be understood.

2. Could be anyone, really. But it’s really just the coiner of this word.

Bullshit word

1. A word that the coiner made up that doesn’t really mean anything. If you’re reading this, you’re just wasting your time, you Meanderthal.

Origin

Neanderthal (mid 19th century),
Meander (late 16th century as a noun).

Accordong to the coiner’s autobiography I Write a Lot of Sad Shit Including the Book You’re Reading Now Because it’s My Life, he stated that he was overly fond of the two words, calling them “pretty badass” (p.133, par.2) and believed that the two words would have been more badass should it be combined. “It didn’t really have to make sense, really.” he said on the preface of his book. “Anything goes as far as art is concerned — and it’s quite fascinating. For the newly coined word ‘meanderthal’, its purpose is to waste your time since it means absolutely nothing. Or maybe it does mean something. I can’t tell you, but maybe you can tell me. The level of absurdity of all this can be somewhat — if not completely — stupefying. Right now, as you read this, I’m controlling you. Keep on faffing about, my friend. None of this makes sense. Unknowing of anything, you are nothing but an Old World primate in the realm that is my writing. You are nothing but a Neanderthal meandering in the world that does not make sense. Or maybe it does make sense. I can’t tell you, but maybe you can tell me.”

Source

Coiner, The. I Write a Lot of Sad Shit Including the Book You’re Reading Now Because it’s My Life. Nonexistent Publishing Inc., 20xx.

Fate of the Balloon

I have disappointed her once again. 

They say there’s nowhere to go but up from here.
If that were true,
I’d be a balloon released from the creases of your fingers,
slowly offered up to the skies
only to experience great pressure that would bring me to my demise
as I fall back to Earth,
I land without the sight of your eyes.

Even the skies reject.
Even the skies deny.
For abhorrent people like myself,
I need not ask why.

Should I stay on Earth,
I’d be to deflate.
To lose air.
To lose everything that shaped me.
To dry.
To die. 

There really is nowhere to go,
be it up or down.
Deep in my thoughts,
I know I will drown. 

Where My Anxiety Leads

Palms drenched in sweat.
Feet cold as ice.
Stomach hurts like hell.
Neck so tense.
Eyes stare blankly.
Ouch.

Palms dry as leaves.
Feet cold as ice.
Stomach reeks like hell.
Neck wrapped tightly.
Eyes stare blankly.
Ouch.

Fall.
Autumn.
Fall.

It was nice knowing you all.