weirdo writes things

Personal Business ,Oh, ,how, ,I, ,Writhe, ,in, ,your, ,road, ,of, ,Anger, ,your, ,road, ,of, ,..., ,shrinking, ,pupils, ,shaking, ,liquid, ,salt, ,falling, ,from, ,Eyes, ,reflected, ,in, ,yours, ,it, ,tastes, ,good; ,gold,-,laced, ,silk, ,ties, ,my, ,thumbs, ,to, ,my, ,back, ,and, ,my, ,feet, ,to, ,the, ,road, ,too, ,precious-to-break, ,well, ,if, ,you, ,don’t,                               ,stop, ,this, ,car, ,it, ,will, ,hit, ,m .

Sometimes, My Hands Are Paralyzed My brain sees no use for useless things. Sometimes, my hands are paralyzed While I write.     Too afraid to type that sententiam     Lost in agreement with capite adhaerente For, my condition originates there.     Someone pulled the plug.     You-.. We pulled it out. Sometimes, my hands are paralyzed (adverb)          ...                (passive verb)     So who's the real subject?

The Night I Died / The Night I Came Back I never witnessed the blade pierce my skin Until I pulled it out that night. Shakespeare only wrote of the stab, But never the release. I'll ask him, someday.     I'll ask if he ever pulled the blade     And released it of heart. It's the blood that hurts best.     The scar it left in my chest may never even fade. I checked the night I came back. Still there. The day I came back it looked different;     Titanium white is being poorly distributed on the blank canvas. In the world of this poem, I undid that coat. It didn't work, anyway. The new hands that pulled on the rope of resurrection Should see my wound, too. Let the new eyes blend into mine And see our mirror with all its cracks. Good evening.

A buried friend's chuckle My hair was cut today. The clumps had fallen like your fur. I feel your whimpers now.

Shield The Skies Exponential Wind Blows leaves and twigs down the mountain  iF iT haD thoughtS  woulD thE winD bE A swarM  oF beeS, nO differencE tweeN  needleS oF pinE anD brancheS oF honeY-sloweD saP ; thE naturaL worlD, kniveS ouT  oF carapacE, resortinG tO thE daggeR iN thE bacK : thE onE motheR knowS wilL destroY herselF The Trees Are Gone, Now A Princess of Needles Makes her first mistake Defending her secret self From the mountaineers in search of Every Beautiful Foot Of Elevation.  exponentiaL windS  cuT aT theiR fingerS,  holloW theiR eyeS , theiR deeP, endlesS eyeS  fulL oF lovE sO curiouS And The Mountain, The Ever-Royal Mountain falls asleep alone once more

The Verbal Riposte: A Personal Recounting of Words as Steel “Then just leave!” The shout echoed through my veins as my heart thumped at its place where I had been stabbed. A straight thrust from Alber, the Fool’s Guard. I had fallen for the exact trick the position was made for. Of course, with one second on the clock left and me a point or two down, I had forgotten. Alber is one of my favorite guards in longsword: it is an invitation to the opposition, a friendly gesture, if you will; yet it is physically such a position in which a strike could come out with unrelenting speed. The blade pointed towards the ground like a hand held out, but the wrists lay turned inward to propel the sword with strong biceps if the opponent should reach to shake. It’s sneaky, it’s clever, but it is not dirty. It suggests exactly what the opposition might do and gives time to plan and react. But lately, whenever I have failed to counter a thrust from Alber, or any sort of strike for that matter, I onl...

Mariana’s Reflection Far below the ocean, Where the waves don't reach, A ghoul listens in the dark; Its strange tendrils gloom across the rock bed. They glean with hearing hands a small speck in the cracks To be devoured by calm, cold lips: The ghoul's monthly meal. The ghostly participle of the depths drifts Ever onward. It will feed again when it should need. A solitary nature in an untold land, living in the blanket of silence, Where is it the fiend would find the sun's screams? Alien creature, monster of prehistory, Oh how you'd cry Of humanity's blood and glory.

deified ll be a poem with no start and no end: you could put it on a roll of receipt paper, hook it up on a paint roller, shoot it off of a leaf blower to watch it truly unravel to revel in the seat of multiplicative infinity that arrives in a reread of the words that wi

Sociosunshine People without faces, They walk under the white light, The white sun melting out the contours. Spill it away, viscous liquid of dark, To shine on every Person with a melted face And shine their light away. Countless carcass Filled with black hole soul Walks along the streets Under the white sun, Ignorant to their dripping wax. They don't need to know. The white light of observation From the eyes of the metrically holy Needs no faces in its never-ending races To scramble on top of the bodies, its bodies of dozen As if they themselves are not among the flesh. They are the white sun and have to light it first Lest their voices fall from Babel And lie with the bodies strewn upon the gravel.

Stuck in your tree I was trying to sneak you a gift Through your window. But I quickly realized my mistake, Looking back at the old limbs that carried me. How do squirrels make so graceful a show, Using lichen to wipe their barely sweat-covered paws? Yet I slipped and nearly lost my grip On the roughest bark around! I can hear their chits and chats as they laugh At me, the big squirrel, tangled like half-cooked spaghetti. I wish they would teach me. But I don’t think our hardware’s compatible. There are two in particular I am looking at; Sitting on the same spur, Their blanket tails entwined And I think I do learn something! But not about climbing trees. No, The next little scoot I took Sent me falling, falling, further falling. It wasn’t really that far. Heck, you must’ve been watching Since you came out running, Your soothing presence now looming above me. And I remember the lesson of the squirrels. I look up at your eyes as your light darkens the skies, Extend my hand to skim your f...

The following is some informal writing on my thoughts of literary criticism in response to a prompt given to a class at my college.  One of the things I have always myself been critical of in the literary world is that it exists in the first place. There has always been this divide between "literature" and just "entertaining writing". Almost all of these methods of criticism seem to me to be an attempt to categorize "objectively" good writing through how complicated a work is or what questions it raises. While I think these are good things to take into consideration, it feels to me like the world of writing has come to a halt in creativity and is now just focusing on the past. Obviously "classics" take time to get attention, but I do struggle to find many good examples of said classics or works that may become classics in the future in the modern day. Yet I have still consumed countless works of writing from this time period that have changed my ...