weirdo writes things

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...