The jags from their stares wrench and echo beyond my eyes, their eyes are now chock-a-block with a monster. I invert my own look towards a daydream away from this pit of despair I helped dig for them. Hands clenched within my pockets, they will never know how close they had come to a detrimental dental demise. I tell myself, they lie through their teeth, smash through those pearly whites and find self-satisfaction within the truth.
They’re coming to take me away to the funny-farm; I’m up-in-arms, hooray! The dark clouds are forming above; Hells-mouth is foaming for a taste of me beneath, especially when I drive my evil pen through these skinned sheets. They call me bad names, they call me ugly, that’s okay, because so are you! How I sleep well with my disfigurement? I dream of killing you! I’m prising open hell; you’re all men of God, have faith in me when I say, I’m a man of my words. Now the world of words should have begged my momma to boil this baby at birth.
I’m the writer the good book looked-upon and shook fear from their every praying nook. I see words differently; they could be definitively disastrous definitely, defacing dimensions infinity infamously from the dragon inside me, diminishing dabblers dripping ink trying to deign diamonds. (That rhymes…. Fools.) YOU’RE IN MY WORKSHOP!!! I cycle down the path of a serial killing psychopath; reading recycled crap, redial that, RECYCLED CRAP!
I’m done being the nice guy, time to write or time to die, lost my fights and ran for my life. This is the return of Alexander Kennedy, the evil pen strikes back. Mr. Sandman, bring me a dream, make it the most gruesome that these people have ever seen. What am I thinking? What am I writing? Alex, there is a method to your madness, can’t you see? I’m starting a war against humanity, sanity is the culprit and it must be smudged clean from this spirally flushed floating toilet.
Bring you picket signs, pitchforks and lit torch, gather round, gather round the monster writer of the century. Sane people fear what they don’t understand and cannot control; I don’t play well with others, why do you think since I grow teeth they kept me caged up? I can out-write you all with my left arm tied behind my back. I cannot rub out these words, like when the world tried to rub out this mistake. I auto-corrected myself and picked up a dictionary for meaning for the word, Pain.
I learned a few more bad words along my way; I don’t need swear words to curse at you. I write you into my world and let the ground swallow you whole. An emptied soul and a mind full of poetic words help formulate a plan beyond insane proportions. I peel my skin and try to fit in, but sooner or later they find new ways to get to me, further under my skin. So I put my faith and collective insanity and create a fictional world, where human rules do not apply, only the evilness that seeps from me. So I will slog my way through the slutty, semi-silent but slithering away siren ridden streets for some sort of success. I will figure out a way to pull your eyeballs out to my blog; and once I am in your minds, I will manipulate my way to the top of the food chain and then start to munch my way down the pyramid.
So you can blame Eminem for giving me a second chance at life; Or you can blame my mother for giving birth to me. But it is society in a whole that failed me, pushed and pulled me to my own extinction, this is not an attitude problem, this is manmade evil. I’m your Frankenstein monster, you do not wish to confront. But just know I will take everything from you. This is all I know. This is my design.
This pen is a monster; it’s the only one that gets me!
I’m coming for it all, one last stand on every piece of paper, crumple it up and use them as bombs or make myself paper airplanes. Extremists, Haha! Please… I’m an extreme extremist; I eat terrorists as if they were bubble-gum, see what I did there? I just blew-up another one. Pop! I’ll be waiting here forever on these pages; a pen as my gravestone, a bunch of blunt pencils as flowers and a papier-mâché coffin. I’m throwing sucker-punches at this page but this isn’t the bible, less holy! My life stinks, I can’t even afford to pay my water bill; I’m the stinky-kid. Help me, I’m a writer! What have I gotten myself involved in? I’m sick of this life; this must be the withdrawal from sanity. What can I do with this life except become a writer; there a light-bulb has just switched on, turn it off! This headache is getting worse. My words jump straight off the page, don’t they? Beware they could blind you.
This whole big bad world has nothing on me, why do you think I peeled off my own skin? I wanted to become appealing to everyone. You cannot do what I do; you can only do what I cannot do, which is stop and fail. I’m now stabbing my eyes with my pen, so I can really see what I am writing for you. Can you see passed my words and see the light? Here, let me put this computer over your head. This is what I’m meant for; to me it’s as if I’m carving my name in cement. It’s that easy!
So throw all your pens up in the air, blacken out my Sun, no matter; I write in the darkness. Human emotion is my only kryptonite; it radiates through and clouds my vision, I just have to remember I’m not human. I live in this pen, I live in these words, now you have read me; I’m on your mind – my job is done. Don’t blame my mother; she did her best to raise Hell! From every litter you must have a runt, that’s me. I’m Mr. Brightside though; I must have rolled on my side on this hellfire. I could always count my blessings in life but I’m a writer, I don’t deal in numbers.
I sleep with this pen every night; I think I have contracted ink-poisoning, it’s life-threatening with every word I scribble. Fame is in a frame on my mantle, I’m in love with her but she is too busy satisfying other people but I will be the love of her life, until we’re both dead! I bucking-bronco off all of my mental baggage, I’m sick of carrying all of the dirty laundry; they call me a pig-headed ass!
Why are you asking me to leave? I don’t even live on this world. These aren’t words, they are only spasms I suffer with, so what exactly are you reading? That’s right, nothingness. Why are you here? You could be writing screenplays, you could be living your perfect life, you could be making money; don’t do what I’m doing, I’m doomed!
On a scale of one to five, in women’s eyes, I’m usually number 4. Why do you think I never step forward in this line up? I don’t want to be underrated. But I did it! It’s like a murder he wrote.
I burst into laughter every time I read my journal, my life is such a sick-joke it’s actually funny. I can’t talk to some people, I get more sense from talking to brick-walls, so I did that and they tried locking me up for that too.
A problem shared is a problem doubled, my words can be infectious. Does Alex live here? Sorry, his upstairs is vacant. This pen is a monster; it’s the only one that gets me. We’re all prisoners behind this mortar; I’m reaching through the brickwork to show you I’m still alive.
And as soon as my stars have aligned, you can then watch me as I shoot! Because I’ll be a Superstar.
To whoever stole my antidepressants, I hope you’re happy with yourself. It’s so weird when you have mental illness and take medication for it, all your friends disappear and don’t want to talk anymore. Now people know that that I have a screw loose, they tell me they believe in me all the time, so I am guessing they didn’t before. I now live with my mental illness; my wife is super jealous towards it because it’s always on my mind.
They say my condition runs in the family and I am on a cycle of new drugs, way too much exercise for me and I never run from my problems. #LazyCrazyWriter
I write until the wheels fall off, must be why I am always tired. Scribbling this down on paper, on the edge of my bed, I hope I drop off soon. I tell people I am tired and their response is to go to sleep, they don’t understand me when I say tired. If you don’t feel like screaming all the time, we can’t be friends.
In this post I take a few funny jabs at my mental illness, this purely my attitude towards it all. Some days I can laugh and shine a light on the problems and other days I stay under the covers and keep myself in that dark place.
My world is not your world; my problems are not your problems. But if I can just be here and tell you, you are not alone in this, then I am taking a step to help beat this. I am not going to imagine what you’ve been through or going through. I just want you to know, help is out there for people like us. There are online chats and telephone helplines if you ever need to talk. If you need them, use them, that’s why they are there.
I am flirting with fire; from normality I had cold-feet. I am a kerfuffle of trouble, there’s no saving me now as I have mushroom-clouds for thought bubbles. They lacerate my world believing they killed me, I’m letting slip my dogs of war until they know me as a reformed super villain. Challenge Completed, Planet Earth; I’m spinning out-of-control, no fault of my own, I couldn’t keep hold. I’m a libertine shoulder barging my way through the captive creators; I’m writing on black paper in the dark.
No brain freeze or frisson, picking up lightening-bolts and throwing them at the pages of rapture I capture. This is merely reverie I reveal and unravel, I time-travel back and thwart all my enemies plans for me. I am no poltroon, I pollute pages personally I made it personal because I am no longer a person. The rain trickles down and washes away all my plights from my face, I change my mind and change my face and I am giving the world hell again, true evil is holding a pen. My calm levels are unstable, upon this page I have too much sycophantic horsepower, I bucking-bronco my way out from this web of life.
In school, after Maths was English class where I jotted down my aftermath from the bullies pulley, I guess I’m pure vile and puerile, I’m not a Transformer I can transmogrify. Rambunctious to my soul’s battery core; setting my switch to self-destruction. A man can only receive so much failure in his life before superiority takes over his eyes focus. Insanity is a gift from the Gods; I wield and shield it against sanity.
This world sees what they want to see; I could have charming characteristics, suave and soigné, hats off to me, my undercurrent is currently a catastrophe. All passengers, we have a slight insurgence for turbulence and wizen, please, fasten your seatbelts and come join me within my plummet. Its drizzling green and yellow pills, I’m dancing in the pain, I jump in blood puddles and reappear in sky tunnels of bliss. This hurt in my head I play it over and over again, until a joker smirk arises on my face, I’m no longer insane, isn’t life splendiferous.
Within my writing I cannot be a stentorian, so I must visual lies my memory video-taped life, transplant and transport all of my supercilious kisses of life, these pages are where my wishes go to find a place to die. This world should have boxed me in early, now I can create topsy-turvy from everything that profoundly promotes to hurt me. Here comes the valetudinarian again, turn away, don’t dare turn that page, it’s all of the same. I could be a beacon of silver-lining light, but the doctors beat my head in with a rock to keep me under it for eternity. I am a writer, this is what I do, keep bringing you words and I shall sit here and laugh at you.
I am the devil and I am here to do the devils work! I’ve got my fingers on my own pulse, everyday my body is losing the idea of me. I walk in the sunlight and I burst into a paper ball of flames, bring your marshmallows and shovels; we’re all going on a family trip to hell! I am not fighting myself anymore, I always end up winning. One cut, two cut, three cut, floor. I am neither no longer holding back, I’m throwing this pen and paper at your head; catch them with your eyes. Where I will deliver everyone worldwide, their imaginations will be my weapon against them.
Manipulation is the key. Evil Writer – Evil Writer – Evil Writer – Evil Writer – Evil Writer, every time you hear those words, you will think of me! I am lying naked on a morgue slab cutting open my own chest; the crack of each rib bone is the equivalent of the crunch of an apple bite. Well how else do these people want to see what the hell is going on inside of me? Insert heart here!
I’m a born again writer, why do you think I engrave death on so many pages? Literature will etch my focused ambition from here to the after-world. The gibberish I glibly glide over these glazed pages comes forth as exact natters of my scatterbrains, battering, psych-complaints, medicines, time-restraints on my minds mental states, time to splatter my brains-cloud right down this papers page, do you even realize the rhymes I’m writing in wait? I can’t put this razor down now, there’s more to just saving face.
I’ll out rightly out write you because you write what is rightly right! I may be the antagonist of my own story but that doesn’t mean beauty doesn’t grow within me as a poisonous wild flower. I feek through these hallways talking to the darkness; but before I beblubber I will bestow a blunder of ideal ideas constructed in blood-bubbles. The longanimity keeps me grounded, how can I end my life when I have too many persons from the past to revisit, I need absolution. I defile these pages now. I dollop of dull life mixed with drawcansir and the male equivalent of a drazel. When you get to hell, tell the devil he can suck my pen!
You’re all staring upwards, which stars do you want to be? I will gain an entrance into forever as I dig downward on these pages. I’m running from my monsters I create, I fight and eventually kill myself; all I have is this cemented war cry for it; in essence sweat, blood and tears. I am slipping away into the darkness; I am becoming a son of the night while everyone stays children of the dawn. I need help! My only medication is word dialysis as the demons have pitched home in the corners of my fingertips. I am hungry enough I could eat this paper I am writing this upon. I can’t sleep at night the monster growls within my belly; the ache keeps its pincers clenched. I roll and I thrash, I am being eaten by this. Money has greatly escaped my entire trouser pockets have miraculously sprouted holes. I think this world is trying to tell me something, don’t you?
This evil pen is an instrument of fire, writing out my empathetic feelings means I am gambling with life and death every time I scribe. I am finally alive; life oceans through me along with my brainwaves towards the thought of psychosis, tsunamis inside. You’ll all pay! The doctors tell me I am a Mattoid. I L-L-L –Loath you! Sorry, towards the nicety of harmless words I have lethogica. I’m digging deeper into my mind, the place where I buried anyone that has crossed me from the past.
You may believe this is a story of another broken-heart, but you’d be wrong. This is a story about overcoming Drug Addiction. I hope this helps you…
These Breaking bad thoughts shimmer to the surface, living in a fantasy world where I shiver in the darkness within a false high. Doped up to the eyeballs, this is where I fall from the sky; this is where I’ve lost my mind, right on. Black rainbows of love whilst living in the dark, I’m not supposed to grow in the shadows of a drug. I can’t sleep at night; I love you too much to close my eyes, to close this chapter of our lives we share together. They tell me “One day at a time” but days are no longer my problem, it’s the seconds I circle around when I think of your last kiss. One more hit and I’m done with this. I say I am done with you, but I know deep down I live under you, amazed by the clouds you show me. I loved you and I believed in you so much, if I knew your plans I would have never taken your hand and runaway. You feel so good it should be illegal.
These love drugs are teasing me, they do not love me the way I love them. You leave me speechless and breathless; this is our dirty little secret which keeps me restless, I will never speak of this. Reality, she means nothing to me now, I’m in love with the voice and the feel of you. You’re the real eye-candy, I want to show you off but at the same time keep you to myself, you make me nail-bitingly selfish. It’s always the last time, but with every kiss feels like our first. I’m cheating on my basic motor-functions with you. This is my love letter to you, after this we will be done.
I can no longer tell what is real and what is not, this was your doing. This broken heart and endless turns within these covers will be my punishment for leading you down my path. Crying with a glass of water held by a shaking hand, you bring me no joy in doing this. Time to love what is good for me, not love what I want. A fresh breeze runs over my pale skin. I will no longer listen to the voices or even pick up that phone, I want my life back! I want pain, I want my talent back, I want my family and most of all I want my girlfriend; you stole this from me.
I know I will open up books in the future and see your devastating face as you destroy someone else’s existence. But they will have to pull through your chill by their selves, I cannot help. I must dump you now down the toilet of forever. I can hear you shouting “How will you survive without me?!” Do you really want to know how I will survive? …Like this, by myself. I’m going to get myself rich, buy myself a time-machine and throw you out before you got here, only so you know. Just like you, you won’t see me coming.
I’m clawing my way back to the light from your tantalizing siren love song, now I’m pissed off, no one can control this mental patient, I am ultimate; I will be forever. Life is my drug now and you mean nothing to me, it’s over now… leave.
I’m a walking nightmare, my hands around my own throat, can’t shake awake! I’m dying to write dynamic dynamite; writing is my form of dialysis, I need all the badness out. A mental state of emergence has now been issued to you, personally. This is no jocularity; I mean this all the way down to my tormented soul. I’m rattling and shaking, I’m not afraid; you will twig-on when I snap. I’m digging up my own past, shovel in hand; I need answers and resolve some unfinished business, so you can lollop around my questions but remember this is my job, I write like a boss.
Misanthropy over here! So you’re either with me or against me, I’m going to war with humankind. I swindle and hustle my way out from my psychiatrist meetings; they label my big-toe as sane and packed me back to the free-world I am coming to conquer. If you were smarter you would have caught me out. I bring no attention to my shell, I blend in, disappear and robot-dance my way into the crowd, my circuits have shorted but this has made me a bigger man. If you knew my story, you would burn my book.
I’m heat-seeking for inner-peace,
But before I be seated,
These are my proposed proceedings,
I’m pulling out all my deep seeded beliefs,
A concocted mix of special needs, my inner-beast and deceit,
These are the things which live deep in me.
I am a soldier of the apocalypse,
Holding hostage every major metropolis,
If you can’t topple this, copy this,
Looking for my mind,
As I look for a lost wish.
I’m not a writer; I am the reaper of words,
My life is on an egg-timer,
What can be worse than being the worst?
Strand by strand,
I stand before you less than half the man,
I’m a problem they buried,
Now it’s time to raise hell,
The feeling of lost and deserted,
“This is what you deserve, kid.”
I cut myself to excel the bad blood,
It’s all fun in Hell,
Fall down this wonder-well,
Hurry-up before it gets backed up.
I’ve lost my mind,
A search and rescue team,
They can’t find me,
Yeah, laugh it up!
Back when I was fighting for life,
It was frightening,
My personal war of Clash of the Titans.
It’s time to unbind the blind,
And just enjoy the ride.
I’m not coming down from this high, until I am grounded and surrounded by stars. An operated opened sternum sense of a nonsensical life, I have. My real name is Addict, I pour a bowl of Pill-pops, add my milk or vodka-shots and spoon my mouth what it needs. No more secrets, I am an opened book… I need help, I think. I have isolated all I love with my ice-cold heart. I am living a double life and people are fatigued trying to figure me out. How do I join the living again?
Welcome once again to my ribaldry! Sanctimoniously I dribble around what I truly need to deliver, but effusively I fumble my falsehood. I am a walking, writing blob of human but with a side dollop of insane lollop; you can be just like me. Still impecunious, but that is okay, one day I will dream and wake to a happy ever after. Perhaps I am impervious to a happier time? What I truly am in most eyes is an indemnifying writing object. I have a storm in my heart and love within my eyes; can’t I just touch the tip? Insatiable! I’m I accurately jejune to you?
First-off I would like to thank you for stopping by…
I write because words are all I have; I’ll out-rightly out write you because you write what is rightly right!
My name is Alexander Kennedy, I am 33 years old and live here in Kingston Upon Hull – England With my Wife (Cacilia) And my Children (Alexander and Felicity) As a young “Mental Challenged” teen I quickly developed a love for rhyming words (Aspirations of becoming a white rapper/ poet.) But I didn’t know it was the love for the shock of words I loved. But after a few years on the poet scene I found out the words I used were no longer filling that void within me. I needed a challenge while I was attending a mental health hospital for delusions, unable to tell the difference between reality and dreams, walking around and having terrors form right before his eyes, all the while trying to keep my “Normal life” held together. I found a way out in Short stories and Screenplays. I generated myself as a novice pen-man. But as I marched my way through the writing scene, the words I was using did not have the same effect on me, so thus a novel was needed for his void. Taking all of the distorted images of people and events within my life, I create some of the weirdest and dark toned stories. To keep my void filled I must still tackle all of my writing on a weekly or daily basis to ensure my pen doesn’t get lazy.
“I have been to hell when I was boy, when I arose from the fires I became a man; now, living out my life as an act to fit in to a place I can never truly be part of, so I write worlds I remember to entertain you from the darkness that raised me.” – “Psycho-Speak” Alex Kennedy.
If you would like to send us a private message, YOU CAN! We will receive your message and relay it back to Alex. The link is below. (NOTE: If you could leave us a short comment upon this page stating you have sent us a message, it would be appreciated, as we are not always on the email. Thank you.)
If you would like to talk to me about my writings or possible representation or guest-blog please use the e-mail below.
“I am a real life Mental Patient. Now I shall show you a world within the one you live in.” – Alex Kennedy
(YOU STEAL OUR MATERIAL, MY LAWYER WILL HUNT YOU DOWN! …May I just point out some of my earlier stories, from years prior, are from when I was mentally ill and on meds, so there maybe some spelling mistakes and weird twists. No I will not change them! They remind me of a time when I was less than myself now. But as I have grown, so has my work and spell-checking. Thank you.)
HAVE YOUR SAY AND TELL ME WHAT YOU THINK! Thanks for reading.
Pages of madness I write and sleep with upon my bedroom walls.
Epilepsy convulsions and split-second spasms, my split decisions from my split personalities, my pride I take that personally, am I really that dampened when damaged? They deaden my deepest wrestling dread in my self-secluded, society excluded anxiety, A shut-in in this Hell in a Cell. My life, that lie, dis’ life will have you questioning my own morals and codes, the air is always cold in my area code, what do I do with all this distress? I’m in pain, discomfort triumphs and still I am recumbent, currently my placid undercurrent is under construction.
When I do these drugs, I tell myself I’m looking for a cure. This medicine’s essence is supposed to end this depression, all it does is stimulates my thoughts, thins my waist gaunt, imitates my soul which was once lost, insulates the frost, I wish to obliterate these walls, I will kick, spit and claw. My false remedy, murders and renders me until my dependency ascends and sentences me to an eternity of no one remembering, Alexander Kennedy.
I’m relapsing from these memory time capsules, now there’s a hard pill to swallow. Here I am in all my self-loathing and depression… Doesn’t it look like it? Can you see through my cobwebbed veil of deceit?