You suffer, I suffer. Poverty is placed perfectly on my plate, eating my guilt, I cannot stomach this on the long nights. My pockets are stuffed with my past of torture, I am all cut up about it, I plead, no, I wish to be hung drawn and quartered. Life is a tough pill to swallow, I would know, I swallowed a lot of them in this home, bittersweet, home and life’s about to swallow me whole. When the rich steal from the poor, they call it business; when I, the poor man steal from the rich, they call it illegal. I have the love from my monsters, they’re the only ones who get me and never give up, and that makes me more prosperous in your unlit perception.
I am a mere scab upon this world as the whole planet wants to pick on me. Beware world, this is my turn! When I straddle this pen, I can kill you with my papercuts. I would scribble this world as an ignited cherry-bomb to have revenge upon you and you alone. Why individually miss a target when I can wipe clean the table in one sitting? I have eaten a dictionary. Each page thrashes out and rustles with a shiver with the knowledge of what my pen is about to carve upon its skin. Get them, boy!
I am wearing my madness as a medal; this world will not allow me to forget what I am, so neither should I. Please, enter heart and emotion here. Bring forth your scrolls of paper and your flickering quills, condemn me, crush me and quarter my limbs; for I will write myself a new destiny, one where you are all alone in the darkness where I have lived, let us see how my monsters shall treat you in time.
I am running on the fumes of past fears, my memory sticks out from my brain as a protruding cocktail sticks. Lobotomize these thoughts forever Alex! There is madness in my method of writing, yes, but my method in which I use helps tame the madness into a constructive horror show for you all. I am a master sculptor with a pen, chipping away at my mental illness so you can see revulsion from my perspective. Behold a masterpiece from my membrane pieces. Doctor, open me up and fish these voices from me; Priest, open my soul and take this ghost that is haunting the hallways of this body!
I am cold towards this world, hence the shoulder barge. You don’t get what you want, you get what you fight for. Remember, it is better to fight for you life rather than waiting for your prolonged death. Fear is only a choice – A brain tidal wave! I choose to grant it, as it is the only thing to ever stay consent within my life and thinking. These words are actually flesh-eating ants, that when you inhale with your eyes, they feast upon your brains. Yummy!
I am running naked in the rain for perennial revenge, pointed fingers and tuts ensue, watch me bare my asinine . I have made a deal with the devil; if I use him to write and give him a purpose, he would return the favour. My words are jumbled and my blog is a jungle book; can you hear me roar in pain on my pages? My apple has fallen light-years from my family tree, on this loose leaf I a tremendous nut who is throwing shade. I was brewed in the chaos of humans malfunctions, now I have doctors telling me I’m the one that needs fixing?
“You have me confused with all of them, wait! Please don’t lock me up, I was happy before they came into my life and broke all of my windows.”
Now I am smashing each of their windows in revenge, well, I am in need and looking for a breakthrough. Haha! I’m not aiming for the stars, the sky is far enough, this where I will explode into smithereens and my ashes will twinkle downwards upon the clouds and wreak havoc within the acid rain, I sin to reign. Is it a bird? Is it a plane? It’s my ejector seat from an F15.
psychowriteralex@gmail.com
Alexander Writes 
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