These are four adaptations/alterations of my previous poetry/prose. I have placed them together in this post for ‘The Truest Sentence’ challenge. I’m make no claim that they are the most wonderfully crafted sentences, or even decent sentences, but I can assure you this: they are true.

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(1) The paradox of power in being human is that we must unplug to recharge.

(2) This thorn of crowns will pierce me through if what I’m worth is what I do.

(3) He talked as if he ruled the world and drank as if the world ruled him.

(4) The ‘Pessimist’s Guide To Hope’ has only one step: pray that you are wrong.

Alphabet Soup now covers my floor
I spilt it when op’ning the microwave door

the whirring sound of the computer fan

tuned a quarter note sharp of middle C

clashes with the ringing in his ears

to create a dissonant symphony titled:

anhunedd

It tasted oh so sweet and smooth
But was weeks beyond freshness
His taste-buds rejoiced
As his stomach staged a full fledged revolt
Dowsing the fire with a water bottle
He stood his ground

I really want a new deck quite often.

But I feel like I’ve got a royal flush coming if I just wait for the next card.

But the dealer is quite slow.

And I’m all in, so I could lose everything.

So it’s a bit scary.

But I dont fear.

I get sad though, cuz I’m impatient for the happiness to come.

I guess it’s how I deal with what I’ve been dealt.

if peter pan were a pessimist
perhaps i’d be personally pleasing
partnering with pirates
politely

he talked as if he ruled the world
and drank as if the world ruled him

He grumbled to himself as the yolk of the egg cracked open and ran over the top of the carefully fashioned hole in the piece of buttered bread, spilling over the crust and onto the sizzling pan. He meant for the inside of the egg to be over-easy, but now it would clearly be over-hard. This wasn’t the breakfast “Porthole” that he was planning but there would be no turning back now that the egg was cooking. Though his body instinctively mumbled in disapproval, this didn’t ruin his morning in the least, for he knew that when dealing with things as delicate as eggs one couldn’t plan on perfection (whatever that means). 

The dish he was cooking—if you can call a piece of fried bread with an egg inside it a dish—was known by a variety of names, but he always preferred calling it a “Porthole”. It was likely that he came to prefer this name due to the time he spent sailing ships on the ocean in a previous life, long before he retreated to the solace of the small cave where he now lived. The names “Sunshine Toast”, “Moon Egg” and “Rocky Mountain Toast” just seemed a bit too flamboyant to him as he crouched down over the makeshift stovetop he built out of stones, wood and an old charcoal grill-top. But in the end, the name of the dish was irrelevant, only the content mattered.

This brings us to two of the main reasons he docked his ship and ventured inland: cooking eggs on a seafaring vessel is a difficult feat, especially if one is attempting to leave the yolk intact, and names and labels hold little weight when the frivolous opinions formed by outside observation yield themselves to the substance of the object they’ve never taken the time to savor.

He chuckled to himself as he quickly realized that he both broke the yolk on steady ground and labeled the dish subconsciously. Then, grinning to himself alone, he took a big bite.

time approaches terminal velocity

mind takes on the consistency of a salvador dali painting

head throbs like a bass-heavy house mix

work piles up around

lights go out