weirdo writes things

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