weirdo writes things

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...

Pen and Brush The gestation of the Pen took thirteen years. Perhaps they were always there, just glistening. Transparent in the ultrasound. The Pen awoke at thirteen years, and aged from there. Weaving stories bright and vibrant, low and sound. The Pen wielded the mind and commanded it through words. The story of the Pen is nothing like the stories of their words. The Pen’s life is linear in physicality, but a spider’s tangled web in the mind. Few grand adventures, many great battles. There’s joy in the journey, but not every battle is won. The Pen is not like its early characters. The Pen has no armor. The Pen has but one bullet in each fight. Their stories grow higher as each fall falls lower. But the pit is too deep. The stories can no longer reach. “The world is lonely by my hands.” With no way up and no way down, the Pen searches left and right. Digging tunnels in the pit of desperation, so many lies are found. But eventually. The Pen will find the Brush. Their tunnels meet. They’...

The Queen of Needles The Queen of Needles sits upon her throne Built upon the skull of her own, Her kingdom is herself and her trial And here she is, with all her bile. She walked her boots through mud, Drug her bloody feet to the water, Cast herself forward Only to falter and falter. Each needle in her side staggered her gait, Pushed her back but always ahead, A head that would not fall After tears began to crawl. She remained alive and it was all that she needed, For with time came death and death came life; Her bruised hand thought twice About plunging that knife. And here she is today, with all her bile, Now she may rest for a while. Her scars healed and screams softened Not for some time will she need that coffin.