Happy Birth, my child

Hello dear children! Your beloved Pronk is making this a place to ramble as well.

Today I am welcoming my last hours of being in my ‘teens’, by technicality. At this moment I am 19, and in another, I will have survived two decades. Darwin knows I am, by far, the fittest. Don’t laugh, I’m not being facetious, merely cynical. Kind of.

I am taking this time to reflect on myself; my life, my past, my future, my destiny, my fate, my uncle, life, death, papaya and my addiction to kefir. I am about to launch into some philosophical B.S. that will make you wonder how I became so mysterious and cool. You’ll read it and feel a connection with me like you never had before. I’ll have so many new ideas that no youth has thought of before. I will show you an opinion that is so unique that you’ll have to resist it and then follow me because you’re a bored person on the Internet.

By the way, if you read what I write in a British accent then you will find yourself illuminated beyond belief to the meaning of my writing.

Since everyone is so deeply expressing himself or herself through poetry, I am going to share with you something I’m going to spout out in an instant.

Title: Wombat Maiden, War Between Lovers

I peel the death from her eyes

And the dead skin from her lips

Her lonely heart rekindled

By the shadow of my pulse

With a mere look I see

Cobwebbed shadows line her lashes

Tumbling cries goosebump her flesh

Age wore down her salted trails

I warm her hand with my own

Paper skin between scabbed palms

Her eyes flutter open

And shake the wetted hearth of ash

Pikachu

“I choose you” her feathery whisper dances

A susserus of the dusk

Parted lips breathing the fog of candles

Into the warm womb of light

Dry, heated air wets my tears

Sticky beads of honeyed glances

Calculated stutters with ebony eyes

Succulent leaves have a nice texture

****Reviews:

“I love this poem so much. It speaks as if a dying animal that barely knew how to hold a writing utensil and scribbled inanity onto a wall with its own blood writes it. I read it to my children nightly so that I can warp their minds at a young age. I want them to be as deranged as this poem’s author. Who knows, they may be the next Lewis Carrol!” ~Waldrich Von Wigglestein

“It speaks to me with such fiery passion that I almost mistake it as my angry and stubborn wife beating me with the ladle once I’ve come home late” ~Charles Henterhorn

“When someone puts the words ‘womb’, ‘hearth’ and ‘death’ into a poem, I instantly am hooked. The modern twist with Pikachu was really personable and I felt like I related my inner nerd to this monolithic perfection of metaphoric wonder” ~Verbuta Yule

“Hell yeah” ~Charles Dickens

“If I could grace my parchment with such stunning words, I daresay I would be a Godsend. That’s exactly what this poem is. It will be interpreted hundreds of thousands of ways through centuries. Children will moan for millenniums in classrooms as professors make them decipher this beautiful scripture” ~Annabelle Tibbletalk

“One word: Genius. Genius in a bottle” ~Chester Rotte

Care to add your own review? This is just a sample of how popular I am and how I basically raise people from the dead to use modern slang once they read my poem. Being a deranged necromancer really comes in handy.

Some of you may wonder about what I’ve been doing this summer. Some of you couldn’t give a damn, and in that case, you probably have a relatively normal life consisting of partying and having friends. Well, I have been taking summer school and living the life of a couch potato nerd.

I have been working on my art for the past couple days. Many of you clever ones have learned of my comic. The plotline to this comic has not been revealed yet. However, it consists of Germany, artillery, cats, shapeshifters, my role play with Banak, death, ovens, Tim Burton, A Wolf at the Door, and sweets. Essentially, a nightmare.

If you're wondering about how I wrote such a gorgeous poem so quickly, Pushkin's spirit possessed me temporarily.