Insignificant Tales, Vol. I

Tonight I tell you a tale of minute proportions that has little to no significance to anythign whatsoever...

There once was a man who lived on Wall Street; he was a simple beggar with nought but a cup and a caoat to his name, he walked the streets with his head hung in shame, but the idea of run-on sentences had never crossed his mind, until one day he found a legal pad in his friend's mom's apartment kitchen and he continued to write a ridiculously long sentence about a pointless story about how he made up a story about how truth mixes with exaggeration.

Contempt of Concepts

My own contempt,
stolen by hunters,
stalking in my own apartment,
ate my banana's,
played my guitars,
they would.

Forget your schooling,
I'll be your physician,
Let's pray,
I'll shock you.

(I had difficulty deciding whether to put contempt or concept in the first line, it makes sense to me either way, so read it however you want)

Word Choice

Tonight I write out of sheer boredom. The slim cracks of light on the wall from the stove clock fuel my mind with words much more extravagant than fuel, but sound even more cheesy. Frustration doesn't seem to bother me lately at all, which is strange because I used to get so stressed out over the smallest things. I should be mildly stressed that I haven't found an apartment yet, and we're supposed to move this weekend; but strangely enough, I'm not. After living with little to no food, not much of this inane, little shit bothers me anymore.