weirdo writes things

Pen and Brush The gestation of the Pen took thirteen years. Perhaps they were always there, just glistening. Transparent in the ultrasound. The Pen awoke at thirteen years, and aged from there. Weaving stories bright and vibrant, low and sound. The Pen wielded the mind and commanded it through words. The story of the Pen is nothing like the stories of their words. The Pen’s life is linear in physicality, but a spider’s tangled web in the mind. Few grand adventures, many great battles. There’s joy in the journey, but not every battle is won. The Pen is not like its early characters. The Pen has no armor. The Pen has but one bullet in each fight. Their stories grow higher as each fall falls lower. But the pit is too deep. The stories can no longer reach. “The world is lonely by my hands.” With no way up and no way down, the Pen searches left and right. Digging tunnels in the pit of desperation, so many lies are found. But eventually. The Pen will find the Brush. Their tunnels meet. They’...

The Queen of Needles The Queen of Needles sits upon her throne Built upon the skull of her own, Her kingdom is herself and her trial And here she is, with all her bile. She walked her boots through mud, Drug her bloody feet to the water, Cast herself forward Only to falter and falter. Each needle in her side staggered her gait, Pushed her back but always ahead, A head that would not fall After tears began to crawl. She remained alive and it was all that she needed, For with time came death and death came life; Her bruised hand thought twice About plunging that knife. And here she is today, with all her bile, Now she may rest for a while. Her scars healed and screams softened Not for some time will she need that coffin.

Synesthesia Inc. and Sun Inc.’s Co-Department Your low-friction colors, They are not the kind you want? You want no-friction colors, yes? You want flying, frictionless colors? I’m sorry ma’am, we can’t give those for free. High-friction colors are low cost, would you want those? The price is abundant betrayal and wrongdoings! Oh, you’re not a high-friction kinda gal? I’m sorry to hear, that middle-zone must feel like a held-breath. I’m sorry, I know it is hard to deal with a faulty product. We can’t get you a fresh frictionless set as a trade-in, no. What is the price of frictionless colors? Well the first set is free, if you can remember. This is your second set? Ah so you know how it works! Yes, upgrades from friction sets depend on the colors and levels Oh, you’re really low? I’m sorry ma’am, you have to pay the price. Oh right, the price to upgrade is Fix or Refresh. Yes this can happen naturally, but it is riskier. Ah, okay. Good luck! We hope to see you again soon.

Winterfell Winter fell upon Winterfell; Nobody was surprised, but all were disappointed. It gets sooner and sooner each year. The cold burns our hearts away, Leads our freedom of clothing astray. All we have now is coats without snow; Let winter fall away. If only winter would fall in flakes, Then maybe I’d give it gold; With our hills and fields and room for snow, If only… if only. “I won’t believe it!” half of them say. I don’t think their eyes will tell anyway, what’s right before them, it’s so glass-clear; Let winter fall away. Like a reverse strainer, We toss out the good; But us citizens of Winterfell… Well we only get what’s left. Fresh air cut off by frozen-gloom, Let winter fall away.  

The Box of Forgotten Things The Box of Forgotten Things is not real. Neither are the things you left in it; They were memories. They were real, And because of you They aren’t possible. Only Now is real. Then is a possible Now, but only if you leave your Box discarded. Don’t forget. You are the only one to witness Every word you have ever said, but how many can you truly recount? Don’t forget. You witness death at every moment, yet You never realize. You left them all in the Box of Forgotten Things. Leave your Box discarded. Warp your Box of Forgotten Things into an Archive of Many Nows. Preserve your Thens. But… what happens to those dead memories, anyway? What are you? A collection of them? Don’t forget.

When Alex bought their metrocard from the machine, they accepted whatever comes next might change their life. That’s why they came here, after all. The Train of Odd Places was known for being unknown. In all of the newspapers Alex read, they learned that the Train never stays in one city for long, and strange things happen to the few who enter. When it appeared in Alex’s small, uneventful town of 80,000, they took their chance to rid themselves of the dirt of their school “friends”. Nobody else was at the entrance to the station with them. It was quiet. Each step they took deeper into the underground echoed like rumors, somehow getting even louder with every passing second. Alex arrived at the gate and swiped their card. Suddenly, but quietly, all of the shadows around them turned deep red. Like all other colors were just… turned off. Grinning with both excitement and confidence, Alex marched on; sending the supernatural change to the millions of blank filing cabinets in the back o...

 

 

The Initiator I am the Initiator; I will the seed to blossom: These sparks I start I want so badly, and yet I am exhausted, full and popped. I hammer of Glue, but wish to be the nail And remolding my head fails, for I am the Initiator. I work, I Work; I create and yield strength, but at the cost of my own. I am exhausted, full and popped. I try to call for help, but it is a whisper’ I am a cartoon, a real lie; I am the initiator. I am a bee: born with a job, a job I am not born for, But one I am built for. and yet I am exhausted, full and popped. I see you, Lurking here; Your eyes are mine to hold. I whisper to you, an act iv Thankyou. I am something I am not. I am the Initiator; I am exhausted, full and popped.

 A Letter to Death Good day from a far away land, We have come face to face on multiple occasions But never brushed lips. Every time I see you skipping towards me, I pause time to think of thee, and I reflect. I think. Whether you are foe or friend, I do not understand But I cannot let you in either way. For joining hands would lead to friendship, but may that friendship fall, alas! I hope. I see the glint of you in the eyes of many who look at me. And of course, they are only glints. Glimpses of the hopefully nonexistent future. I do not wish you upon anyone, I do not wish you upon anyone to me. I care. I realize not all ends well but with sincerity I digress back together with hope. I hope and I try to capture and dispose of those glints which turn into flames the flames of imagination’s pain, the fear instilled in the eyes of my own, the ever pressing death of the mind. Though you are strong, dear Death, I am strong too. I will persist, and no entangling of twine or doodling of ...

 Burning Flowers We are the dregs; The edge of humanity, the forgotten limbs that make this world have its face Time and time again, filing the slot at the front's end. We are your sport, your ignorance; All that allows you to be, We're the numbers behind your game, and the architect of your floor. but-- We are your dregs_, Your slaves, your food. We give root to the world's face in bipolarity. Your marginalized corner of life yet, you need us. you come back to us. For your survival or for your madness, Why are you doing this? Why do we get no thanks? You're killing us...