weirdo writes things

The Intermediary In Power When you pull a card from the Deck of the World, you Can’t know if you are taking your fate or losing it. For fate lay not in your hand but the hand of the dealer. But this fate even is unknown to the World, as Your Hand, the Intermediary, chooses which card to pull blindly. What you desire will come before you, but choose carefully, For those who do not, they leave the cards of their kin clouded In dust, to where they too know not what tools they have to play with. So choose carefully, and remember that nothing is useless and Nothing can sing. Play your cards right, and you will find your destination by the Hand that pulls cards from the Deck of the World.

Glass Manacles             I awoke to the sound of thunder. The cabin of the boat was rocking back and forth more heavily now that the storm had seized the waters beneath us. My son, despite his age, entered the room with tears in his eyes. I don’t blame him; having to deal with his anxiety at a time like this can only be harder due to the storm. We’ve capsized once before in a storm like this, but it was many years ago. We were on our way home from visiting his grandparents. The radio had estimated a large storm to be just south of our typical path, so we decided to play it safe and alter course northward by a kilometer. The weatherman had been wrong. When we entered that horrible downpour, we were not expecting anything worse than what we had faced before. I want him to laugh at it one day, but we both know that isn’t possible. That day, the winds suddenly changed one moment—it was strong enough even to push us back half a m...

A Voice of Younging Against Old. I want I want to be free of the Cycle A Hero's Journey laid out for us, not even! Yet it is still a predictable pattern. This Cycle, it's never ended. It has always been and always will be. From four legs to two to no legs at all; We are all recycled You. You woke up, You grew, You settled anew, You worked, You grew, You created You 2, They woke up, They grew, They settled anew, They worked, They grew, And, Before You know it, You fall asleep too. Did you see it? Did it fly past in a blink? That Your Cycle ended, and You started Another. You ran out of Time. But I, I want to be free of the Cycle. But how? the Cycle is ever encompassing. How do i Change the Cycle? Is it Too Late?

→Who→← you Ask in your most dire of times: who Am I? but the Question is not who Am I? but what Am I to other people? for You know you but you want Others to know you Too. though You might not really Know you Too. but That is okay be cause Others don’t know You too. so they Assume that You are you which Helps you find You.

The Help We Give Each Other As I read your spoken thoughts I think about what you're giving me. A blinding mountain to stand upon Of which you lie beneath; Or a colossus of sand Of which you slide down Into my care. You give to me your death so willingly, Trusting but ink to demystify me. As if one cannot deny those in charge. Whether or not it's my papers or manner My heart is heated from your unalloyed hurt But do not think wrong, it hurts me too; The love's from the words that speak it.

Our Misdirection Instruction We always put our necks on the line to insult everyone who loves us. While it is always clear who is the leader, You is never the reader. We talk and talk about those in our lives but give them all the same name. Because a nameless name leads straight to fame, so You is never the reader. Do our garrulous Yous have all the same weight as our Yous of eloquence? It’s hard to tell but it’s usually so that You is never the reader. So why do we follow along their lines if epithet and praise is on faces of dimes? Do we followers become those leaders so that You can never be the reader?

The Grave of the Stonekeeper The grave of the Stonekeeper marks our end in paradox He places the stones at the finale of every story but his, so Can he truly ever end? The Stonekeeper knows his lid will not be capped despite being filled He knows there is no punctuation on humanity Even if all and him are long gone His job a sombre one, but necessary Nobody to remember, Nobody to shed a tear At the kindness of the Stonekeeper Until the cell divides many years; The Earth growing and rotting, Restoring to the roots of Everytree. A new Human arises from these divided cells Though it is different, unknowingly. Exploring a new, broken world, This creature among her friends Discovers the bones of the old grave. The Stonekeeper’s purpose is unmarked and unfound, Even an archeological genius is unfit to find the lowdown. New Humanity breeds its cities, its world. Every essential metal recrafted. Even here, decades pass in few pages, The true details left only to those who witness. But it will ...

       

Our Humanity We all have blood, Blood that can boil Blood that can soften. We all have blood: All with the power of one word. It can move, change, because of one word. Red can redder, with just one word. Blood can spill, with only a word. Life can be broken at the hands of one word. We all have blood: All because of the power within one word. The heart, the brain, the body Can glow in the presence of one word. Everything moves forwards, not backwards With the impact of one word. The sun shines brightly in our irises In the vitality kept in one word. The blood of the gods within our very hands, The life in the arms of the eyes that hold you, That’s what the power of the word is for.

Power, Past, and Pain’s Exsanguination Be still, my friend, And ask to never see your past again. Yet it was the scaffolding for the feet you walk with, But the same thing that tore at your skin. I fear, dear friend, Your growth has yet to complete. But do not plunge the needle into your tender meat. As you kneel, eyes locked with mine, You know you can have a calm end. - But my Queen, my Idol, For all your resilience, you render me annul. No one can beat down what you’ve slain, and, Of every share of the world, you carry them all. You’re the Queen, the Idol. You resemble all, but I’m afraid you are not all. While you walk, I crawl. I have the mind of a man But the hands of a doll.. Tell me, my Queen, my Idol, Will it be worth the nightmare?  

 

Paenitentiae Welded parasites eat from the inside out, as the fruit grows with age. But the iron insect never stops chewing. It is heavy, and gravity is what brings us all below to bone and ash, Constantly pulling down and feeding the ground. Little flies hover around the wretched stink of the infested Sekai Ichi. Flies of action, of relapse. Begging the fruit. The flies turn to swarm, to storm, to the blinding black. The juice squeezed by the gnawing teeth of the creature Trickles into the bleed beneath the knees, a limp showing its signs. Book and Quill, Note and Mind. The limp shows a sign, a message asking for breath, for health. Give it its requests and see the bug, watch it. The horse ignores their flies; they turn their gaze and see forward. They are flies, not stars. See your stars before listening to your flies. It is manipulated metal, it cannot leave without the rotting of the apple. The fruit’s growth is exponential, and the mass of the Lusterless slows its bite. It is heav...