weirdo writes things

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 ...

Burnt after the Bullet House and Mauled (Postmortem) Staring blankly at the plate, I and my trident cannot wait. We’re eating a genocide on every date. Therein my dentin crushers lies your fate, But to you I do not feel malice nor hate. I'm only staring blankly at the plate. But what if I lose my will to stay? There has to be another way. I mean We’re eating genocide every day! Oh God, this is delicious.. What was his weight? The pig probably couldn’t stand, and it’s nothing innate. In horror I stare blankly at the plate. We bred and tortured you in your cage, Yet have chemists and foodies to make this change. So really, Why are we still eating genocide, these days? Ignorance is bliss till you learn of its sins: Eating the world to pieces with blood-soaked grins. Gourmands of the universe. That’s us, isn’t it just human? I can’t just sit here, this meat on my plate! My own genocide just tastes of paint-tainted hate.

Do you people-watch, or do you watch people? When I observe the human race, And I think about where my eyes are passing, Passing people being more than just their matter, Their motives too, ones which I will never learn As I sit here, maybe on a bench old and rickety With a programmed colony of ants marching over My fingers which drum softly to the music The bustling busker-boys play down the way, Becoming an intricate spider-web in that They show no signs of consistency, Yet all having some little effect on each other Which you could see just by how they cross each other's paths By seeing who steps to the left and which foot steps right Or if they stumble, their heels scraping the ground To make that scratching sound you know has a pitch but is too atonal for you to tell      (maybe the busker-boys would be able to tell you,      but their saxophones are being packed      and they're on the phone anyway) As they nearly crash into each other ...

Goodbye to Forever Blood pouring down its face, The angel was outmatched Like a broken worm Whose regenerative heart had been Ripped in two. And worms won't eat the ones they made      As Sin the Heretic ripped it limb from limb,      Her lips curled into a smile of emancipation.      The shackles of doctrine’s conniptions      Have been gored. In the angel’s final breath its eyes pierce the heavens And it wonders if its god was ever really there.

The Gate stood before you. Containing sector 9, nay, keeping you out. You are the Creator, and nothing must disturb this hellscape. Down the endless vein of marble you can just make out the blank Eyes of God. The protector. It was all about protection. Until one day you stepped forth and said you wanted out. You wanted to see how the multiverse was organized, and it let you. Everything in perfection. Everything is imperfection. In your time walking the Veil of the Multiverse, the spark in your eye only grew brighter. For only those who can look outside the known can run on top of the known. The Gate was here to stop you from proceeding to sector 9, despite it being your homeland. You left, and there is no turning back. What you have seen you cannot unsee. The Earth is but a pipe dream. You made your choice when you left. And you don't regret it. The Painting Guild you led is not lost without you, but they would aid you were you to lead them. The would follow you across the Veil, to...

90 Feet Above the Valley A ropebridge will kill you. A mere four points Holding miles together. The hemp and wood Breathe with every step. You're supposed to breathe. You must breathe When you lift a heavyweight. Tightness causes tears. Torn apart, A bridge cannot help you Walk slowly, lest it fall. Do not worry, though; In fact, relax! The wind will walk you the way. Let your feet go with your thoughts And make yourself a view. A ropebridge will not kill you. Holding four firm points, A fleeting few miles are made For you.

Standing Atop and Before the Departure of Our Continent. "Together, my sister and I sat at the crest of the Rolling Cliffs of Kjalsvyln. Inside my Arkrex Nightingale boots, I used my toes to disable the boost-jump features. It was taxing on the body, and used a considerable amount of Rust coursing through my veins. My sister, Aeliea, was born lucky. Her Golden Rust recharges itself much quicker than my Iron. She hardly ever disabled any one bit of her armor. We've a grave duty to uphold. The riots of Kjal have been growing by the day. The anger at the King is driving the mist away, and letting the thieves and beasts in. With all bad comes greatness, and with all greatness comes despair. We are such thieves and beasts, Aeliea and I. But not a worthless pickpocket or hungry wolf. We seek to fuel their fires. To let them all in. When Kjal breaks, Svyl will lay waste. But that castle in the mist will not stand. With forces worn thin and the strength of two beasts, we siblings will...

The Science of Miracles Chromatic fibers of silk sail From her hands dancing away from her lips As the girl of the garden wishes a warm winter To the brave plants beneath her. She cannot see her blessing, Only hope that it works. Her eyes are closed, after-all. And she prefers it this way. If she could see her magic She may find it harder to imagine. In her cabin she rests By an electric fire. And her mother returns with two barrels for rain One contains this winter’s water, The other, a blob of washed clothes. Mum smiles a warm face heated By a roof capped in dirt and grass. In a morning of the new year, When cicle turns to leaf, We’ll run outside in warm wanton wilds once more. It’s the garden girl’s yearly wish.

Innocent Lives There are little winged friends Napping on leaves and branches That barely hold their weight. They're safe here in the sun, Only needing to worry about each other. Occasionally one will flutter or stretch, Creating a breeze that calms their grounded roommates. These little critters that play in the dirt Are each one of a kind, Yet we all just treat them as one When they scutter out of our sight. But here, they don't mind. The only enemies here are ones they're used to. When their brothers and sisters fall, They fall with mutual respect, Predator and prey recognizing They're not guilty for trying to live. One of them decides to cool off at the pond At which they find a friendly local Who is peacefully drifting atop the water. They each wave with one of six fibery arms, and talk through gesticulating antennae. They are all just bugs, Inside a little jar!

Here(to hear) Your Voice Maiooerds Hovel ohst zerf ourm. Mipen niskon, andum eye fois’s too. Fomskur eemig, Orkaryig, Orumeyp eeyeim chos laihing Tumusolf Soae Tondaf Talurn. Jueshud teykumay lotspreth Soheimalud tafine lieres. Nnthures tie inch rustooyu. Lehtimihiry or voise Inabusens ofmai in Antelmie yulchesfi Nishet formy. Aymtierud.  

Sitting Inside a Shipping Container Sitting inside a shipping container I put a traffic cone on my head Because no one else is here It smells like rubber which reminds me of pigs Their lovely hide feeling or smelling nothing like The rubber of the cone but I think about them nonetheless Though I suppose the factories They are burned at Probably smell like rubber I oink like a pig Because no one else is here And all the pigs are gone I saved them from this shipping container

We Only See From the Inside A red sky is the color of terror: Clouds of evaporated blood, The horizon of an exploded sun; Nothing's more scary than the sky. But the child's eyes see different: A blue velvet; a curtain for the stars. It's the slowest color. Unending, outstretching. The child's blanket hugs the whole globe, Eclipsing fire and rays. The old eyes cry: “Son you’ll see someday, That you’re lucky to be a child. You’re ignorantly undeveloped And you’ll find it’s a gift when it’s gone.” And so the child would find, Later in life, the globe the eyes spoke of. Just as they said, the blueness was gone. But one day, a child from the woods Crested a hill to see a city, A city of old eyes, a dome of red sky And took pity. Her life away from the world Never darkened with the onset of years. She proved the old eyes wrong. That it’s fear that we fear.  

The Door leads to the Floor. Knock-knock; it’s your lungs speaking! They gunpowder-shoot carbon dioxide Through a wide throat and trumpet tongue. They’re disappointed again. It almost feels if you kept one Oxygen for yourself. Throwing the rest into my eyes. Choking, Choking, The Door leads to the Floor. And the dust doesn’t care You’re not here anymore. You’re Air. Your Air, your heir Didn’t want to be you again. But that’s not okay. I’m Your Air, YOUR. I dropped the ball and lost your feet. You’re not here anymore. You left when I lost your feet. They’re calloused, I’m young. And I don’t want your feet anymore. The Door leads to the Floor. That’s. not okay. Trumpet Tongue Louder. TTL. TTL. TTL. TTL. TTL. YOUR. I’m not Mine. The Door leads me to the Floor. But I’m not Me, I’m Yours.

The Corpse of Time Leaves a hole in the world. ;However; You cannot break the skin Of the Corpse of Time. A corpse though it may be, It will never disappear. Mortals cannot slay a god No matter the volume we fear. A bucket can hold only so much drear. 900 years of silence. Drip, Drip, Drip. Silver-gallium fear tips and pours Onto the Corpse; It is ready for solidification, The thin metal turning stiff. We Humans are moving again. Let us no longer drift. O Time Reborn, Give us the Prosperity To feed our Posterity. And lay still no longer.

Hello everyone! Some exciting news. This short story of mine, "The First Blaspheme" is my first paid and published work of writing! My writing is part of a digital magazine called "Eidolotry Digital" published by Psychotoxin Press. I've included a link to the product page for the issue, which is all about queer horror writers! If you choose to purchase the magazine, I hope you enjoy it! Happy pride, everyone! https://www.psychotoxin.com/product-page/eidolotry-digital-7

Pax Violenta   L  i  b  e  r  t  y  e  t  e  m  e  o  o   t        i  a     u             n  s     :              e  s               n  u                t  r                 l  e                  y  d W  a  r  e  r  e      e  a          d           y  ...

The Victim Is Not Me Wings fluttering, It’s always a sprint. The mother sparrow cries To where her fledglings lie. Faster before it’s too late; The hawk has found home. She sees it before it happens: Sharp talons with no malice. The simple hawk is just hungry, Though he doesn’t know who he is eating. In her mind, the sparrow sees Red twigs not from redwood. The stress of her children’s peckish wails Meant nothing to their dying screams. She was too late.  

I cannot stop the rain, But I am still free To choose the tree I stand under. As I feel the drops start to fall I look around myself. “Where was that great oak again?” I cannot find it Because it is Autumn. So I stand, in the open field And let the downpour reign Till Spring. Tiny bullets. Falling from the heavens. That’s where the dead people are. So many… They must cry, Because of the clouds above them. The longer dead cried on them too, in the past. Aggressive bullets… But eventually, it will stop. I think the great oak was struck By lightning: In spring, I cannot find him. Just wet ash among the grass. Hopefully, that soft ash Will find a new home In the roots of another tree. That will be the tree I stand under, Next time; So I do not become a cloud when I die.  

It's been years and I've just realized I'm an idiot. Now, there's a difference between being an idiot and being stupid. I just happen to be both. It was stupid of me to try and trick a demon into giving me immortality. It worked, and for a while it was great. Then the demon realized and cursed me so that every door is essentially a portal to who knows where. It really sucks cause I just want to get home, but that's not the only issue. Sometimes, I'll find the door I walk out of turns out to be the exit of a grocery store or restaurant after days of not eating anything. I just turn around and I'm taunted with a delicious plate of spaghetti! Man, I love that stuff. I will say though, that phrase "you don't know what you have until it's gone" really rings true. Though it's even worse for me cause nothing's actually gone, just slightly out of reach! And then I realized something. Not that I'm an idiot but this is what led to that. A...

 Heya! Clearly since you are reading this I do not need to announce it but it looks good so I will anyhoo! The site is now live!! *sparkle confetti* All of my writing will show up here in one form or another. However, I still will be posting my poetry on the instagram account (@cupcaeke.poetry), and still will be posting other things elsewhere. I just wanted to have one central space where *everything* would be. Anyway, enjoy the website!

 hi! this is a test post, and the first post on the site. I will not delete it for my humanity.

The Retort Something lovely happens When two birds land on one stone: It's as calming as it seems, Both of the air and the mind. The sun's beautiful rays Are felt through closed eyes. Eyes that need not open Because it is safe now. Two small birds sitting on a stone. Two little tweets shout Louder than the booming rock. The many, the fallen finally perch Atop the one who killed their cousins. But they're just there to rest their wings, For the fight is not yet over. Two small birds Sitting on a stone.

Mouse in a Maze of Teeth A man drops his suitcase; A cross and gun fall out. … “Sorry Mist-.. Ma’am?” I tell him I’m truly a woman To hide what would have me persecuted. His face an odd stare, his hand toward the gun, “No you’re not.” … My body and my mind, usually disjunct, They tell me to run. But I cannot find my family; They are all dead. … … “You must be eradicated.” .. For my life, must I never change? Masculinity makes me want to shriek. This body is a horrible prison. There is no art, no authenticity. So I left. And it seems, My heartbeat will too.

But Words Will Never Hurt Me? Ste wrods up isndie A klaiedscoope, Adn see waht cnhanegs Wehn we trun ti! Thsee ltetres aer erevyhwree. I’st baueftiul! Woh kenw Tehre wsa tihs mcuh choas In evrey wrod? No woednr Is’t os esay Ot hrut poelpe Wtih tehm. Tyr nto ot sipn Teh klaiedscoope Oot fsat, mybae; Adn tnihk aubot Ecah lteter.

The Year of the Rising Action A day in which a molten face exists behind The unyielding hide of a rhinoceros-man. A day in which Solitary Moon pours tears that Must leave when Social Sun rises. A day in which we cripple and crush our tired feet while Walking on stilts just to meet the other's eye. A day in which there's no medic in the greenroom to help you when You break a leg on stage, and no one knows if it's just a phrase. A day that is today. This day: The day I notice the juice stain from my lovely childhood on The cushions as I pull over the new couch cover, hiding it From guests who may knock on my door at any second. Today: The day we will with our obliterated minds for Our unwavering immune system to Grant us the blessing of illness for One Free Day to skip work or class or both to rest from The World Our World that is Burning, Crashing, Splitting our Head open! As we Try oh Try to prove we can keep our head out of the water of The ocean we're blind to The Oce...

 

Carmæn The fickle feelings of falling far from What we wonder to what we learn Fortifies the fear in my faint heart And produces palpable pleasure in the Form of foreboding knowledge. That stanza means nothing. Yet, as I see it, as I read it, I read nothing more than the everyday song. And I see another money-wanting man Walk along with his acoustic guitar down the streets Of Nashville, Tennessee. But whatever happened to war Weaving its violence into our words? The lyric, sitting smiling with his friends: Drinks clanging to the victory, but later His drink gurgling in despair At the long lost Luger of his brother across the light. Whatever happened to philosophy Finding purchase in song: Powerful phrases and deep discussions, Classes, even, dedicated to Uprooting our thoughts? Begging to us the question of Questioning our every move? "What does it mean?" I would cry Toward my own acts, Tears of joy flowing from the words of a scholar and a thinker! Not "What does it mea...

"Write a story idea based on a phobia" - Peladophobia, the fear of baldness. They killed everyone I loved. They came into our village and MURDERED everyone. Now we are just one of them. Our village was eaten and swallowed by a city far greater in size and "glory", at least they told us. They came to "educate" us, telling us words of gunpowder and God, and that He loved us too, despite the crimes we didn't even know we committed. And I stand here now in that horrible line, the buzzsaw just fifteen brothers and sisters ahead of me. Grinding our heritage into pieces to become a symbol of the unknown, the holy. We prided ourselves on the unkempt, the chaotic, but most chaotic to us is the constraint of law. This law they want us to spread, against our wills. All in the name of someone we don't know. A symbol. The buzzsaw drew closer, louder; tension rose in my chest as I felt I was about to explode. This wasn't the way it was supposed to be. We wer...

,Every, ,time, ,I, ,see, ,myself,                                                                                                                        ,I, ,think,                                        ...

Abundant Unheard. As I walk small, walk little, I ask you analyze Your unnecessary Godhood. Your paint is thicker than mine, Your voice louder than mine; I see it before your eyes, yet you Don’t.     When last I checked you     Checked my last act     As a needle through stone, through     Trying, angry stone.     Stone bigger than than the     Atmosphere; Suffocating.     But my needle is dull.     Dulled from every day of stone.     Invisible to you, because     Gods don’t recognize Ants. I beg you “Please” as your awareness wavers. An Ant to a God without need. If only the Ant were a God too... I crawl all over your analysis, Begging you to see it, to feel it. To lift it and hold it before your eyes, this Analysis of yours. “Please make me a God.” you Don’t. you Don’t even notice.