weirdo writes things

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.