HOME is where the hurt is, so, sanity must be the illness, right? Memory is mere suicide of one’s mind. Captured by my past, my memories have me prisoner, remembrance is my murderer, too scared to let my thoughts out, locked down, forever. I’ve always been taught that minor minds cave, you’ll need miners to uncover these tough, rock, taut thoughts. Whatever the weather whether I whither or whether I won’t, these are the voyages of my dark diary days; scrawl scrolls of my bawls when a tear comes to visit a page. Destiny is written within us all, each footstep is a word, each sentence is a mile and each lifetime is a book. No matter your outcome, it will be finished whichever wary way you write it.
I am cursed and blessed on the same hand of my maker. This world thinks I’m a joke, tell us another. A plethora of clown tears to honk a laugh at, at this point within my life. The only time I feel sane is with a pen, I wield it as if it were my sword in battle; you will see what I shall swing and curve your way. And, once you have read one piece of my work your eyes will protrude beams of light, I will be on your mind.
Standing in the flames of these words, all I can do with them is set my world on fire. I’m enjoying this pain; let us dance on the ashes of this painful reminder, life. I am more human than human. I cape over this page as if I were a spectacle, bitten by a radioactive firefly; guess what my power is? My self-destruct button has been detonated, a magic mushroom cloud you can read as a nightmare. Do you have smoke in your eyes or are you rubbing your peepers in amazement? I’m drowning on this page; I jumped straight in the deep end, my pen is my life-guard; but don’t save me yet, I’m on fire!
Stop reading this! My words concocted with my pain can burn out your eyes. You don’t use them anyways; you only read half the stories or read into half-truths. My flair never spontaneously combusted, I had to find the strike for the right match for my mind to go up in flames. I’m inflamed with empathy, I’m a flame-retardant retard; my crazy is never empty. I’m bringing an archaic firing to this paper; this is my form of an S.O.S! I’m holding up my lighter towards the sky. Too intense for the eyes to warrant a tear, my skin will burn and bubble and eventually seep off from my bones. I’m reheating my deserted memories for my fire-demon to slurp up for dessert. Revenge is ice-cream!? A dish best served cold; I run on scolding sultry exhaust fumes; how can I bestow a forest-fire on all those who are cold? In my life, I’m that low, I am waistline, an asshole.
I’m living in the past with these third-degree burns, scars have funny ways of reminding you of past mistakes you have made. I scribble with sizzle, fizzle and scrape. I’m breathing inferno while it’s raining torrentially, steaming up your computer screen and singing this very page. This world broke and buried me, now this bad seed is a black flower, which blooms blushing blood. I’m a jack of all trades, I’ve gotten the rapid response late, When I blow my top, along with volcano rocks, my magma words roll this way! Am I destined for greatness with my stories or am I flying too close to the sun? That’s right, melt my wings, boot me out of heaven; I’m already living in Hell. I’m rain-dancing naked, let it reign fire over me; come see what’s inside.
Alexander Writes 
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