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.