As people shoulder straight through Jack, he seems unmoved by their barge, walking side by side with me. Crowds of people are herding either towards school or work, the whole sidewalk is ram-packed.
“Okay, time for a game changer, Natalie. What I am planning to do is to rebuild you, saying that, I will have to destroy you first; all in a hypothetical sense.” Jack reasons, fingering his septum above his upper-lip.
I stop in my track and share a glare of unease to his witty grin. He turns and stands right in front of me.
“What did I tell you? I asked you to trust me, it won’t hurt one bit, well not physically.” He chuckles as he re-turns and begins walking again. I really do not fancy answering him within this swarm of walkers; I don’t think I could handle the weird looks, laughs and points of their normal ways.
I jog up to his pace and take out my Galaxy S4 Mini phone and hold it to my ear.
“Jack, what do you have planned? You have a look in your eyes that’s not really settling well within me.”
He halts and looks over someone’s shoulder as they are reading text messages; the young ladies life Jack scopes into has a smile cut right across her face, the message must be a good one perhaps from a new love. He claps his hands together.
“I’ve got it and we can do it before school, Nat. Onwards and upwards!” Jack pinches my cheeks with so much excitement which emulates from his facial expression. He grabs my hand and tugs me down the street, all the by-passers look on to me being dragged by an invisible force.
“Jack, if you don’t stop pulling me I will be forced to call you an Archangel.” Jack stops in his track but I keep staggering and hurtle straight into his back.
“Hey, Guardian Angels are the poor men in heaven and those Ass-Angels are the movie stars. I am nothing like those douche bags and I sleep better knowing that.” He affirms with a cocky tone. “We’re at your first task anyway.” He pecks me on the cheek. My affinity for this man, slash angel is growing on me.
“Task? What task? I thought you were sent here to help me.” He creeps up to me and throws his arm around me. “I am but the help cannot only come from me, think of me as a coach who hypes you up before the big game but it is inevitably you who will be doing all the running and scoring.”
“Great, Self-help, Jack I could have done this myself.” I exhale gently.
“Sort of self-help but you will have to help yourself to my advice. I don’t lie, Nat.”
I give in with my hands wiping my old life away within my nervous sweat.
“Now, do you see in Jacks-Snack-Bar to our left; there is a guy named Steven Jackson, he is the one wearing a leather jacket.” I glance through the window and see the most rough-looking, chiselled jawed guy I have ever seen, sat with five other loud-ass dudes. “Nat, look at me. What I need from you in our first task is I want to walk in there and tell that guy that he is the most luscious and sexiest guy you have ever laid eyes on and all you want to do is lick his bare chest. Then walk back out before he gets the chance to reply.”
Only thinking about doing this deed freezes my every limb and chases my heartbeat.
“I don’t think I can Jack. That’s way too much for me to handle first off.”
He puts his hands on my face and holds my head within his palms, looking at me right in the eyes, right into my soul.
“Natalie, you are a new you. You have a new look and a new lease of life. I would never have asked this of you if I myself did not think you were ready for it, I wouldn’t have asked it from you. You are, trust me.” I lighten up. “Now get that ass in there.”
Step towards complete demise from the social structure. I enter through the door with a ding and silently I strategize all that I must say while trying to keep it all together. The laugh from the gang in the corner bellows through-out the Snack-bar; all other sitters are unnerved and scared to ask for them to settle.
I walk over panicky but with a mission to keep me marching.
“Hi-Hiiii Steve.” The whole room stops and stares at me about to make a fool of myself. “I would… Like to say-y-y-y… You are the sexiest of all men and I would lick to like you… I mean like to lick you.” I quickly close my eyes, turn, open and march straight out of the door.
“I mess up, Jack.” I almost wail.
“No you didn’t. What you did was stand up to everything that was telling you not to and you took a step into the beyond of your normal state. First step complete, tick it from the list. C’mon let’s get to school.”
We cut through Jenkins Park, which is a wooded area but if cuts the time to walk to school by at least twenty minutes which in theory means an extra twenty minutes in bed. Jack is hopping over logs.
“What’s it like being an angel, Jack?” I probe into his life to get to know about this mystery that has chained himself to me.
“Boring at times, all you do is watch; we all really watch the intimacy side of life, that’s kind of our movies. That one spark between two people that flourishes into a forest fire, it’s an F’in treat which goes great with popcorn.” He reports without ever making eye-contact, still hopping over branches.
“The Devil was an angel, right? So is he still downstairs?” Jack cocks his head and burst out laughing.
“Okay, let me clear the whole Lucifer story up, for your ears only. Lucifer was the most beautiful of angels, females wanted to be with him and the males would have carved off their right-wing just to be him for a day. So one day he and our all mighty father had a major falling out, which got him kicked out our house. That’s the part of the book that all you guys have read, but like it is in heaven it shall be on Earth. My dad forgave and let him back in ages ago, he messed up, paid the price and now he is the golden boy again; a vain ass-bag but still a daddy’s boy at the end of the day. Why do you think whenever there’s a movie made about him, all of the people say there is a curse on the movie set. I would be pissed too to have people think for a millennium that I was actually evil. He’s back at home, think as hell as a rehab centre for angels. He’s bringing his autobiography out on scroll in a few months, I have pre-order my copy along with the audio version of his story in hell, narrated by Elvis. We’re not that different, baby.”
A ruckus of male laughter and shouts comes echoing from through the weaves of the trees and leafs. Me and Jack pass deer in the headlight stares at one another.
“Jack! What could that be?” I hush over to him.
“I don’t know…. Werewolves, maybe?” He chucks, undeterred by the hollers as he stares into my deep blues.
From the bushes behind us comes Steve Jackson, clicking his knuckles.
“There you are my sweet thing, I didn’t get the chance to reply to your compliment earlier, you ran away so fast, so me and my boys…” All Stevens’s boys come out from the shadows of the woods and stand behind Steve. “…Drove around looking for you, to thank you in our special way for making our day; I hope you like it.”
I start to back up with the trembles of fear shivering me. Their evil deeds show in their eyes as they step forward and try to flank me from the sides. Jack steps in front of me.
“Natalie, slowly start to back up, I will deal with this. Nobody and I mean nobody gets in the way of my work.” Jack bows his head with his eyes closed, focusing himself. Without any effort his flutters into the air; the forest turns dark. The shadows of gigantic wings attach and open from Jacks back. Within one flap of his almost invisible wings and ferocious winds tears through the forest, ripping up logs and sending the spiralling through the air, brush that laid still distorts the entire forest; along with the roar of wind help pick up the hooligans and somersaults them through the woodland until they are out of sight.
Everything soon settles and begins to rest on mayhem. Jack comes back to the throws of gravity. He turns with a smile.
“Shall we get to school, then?” He bubbles like nothing has happened.
I nod incessantly in shock as he brushes by me with a wink.
What have I gotten myself into? Who is this guy? Why me? I guess by the time this week is up I will find out, won’t I?
A storm just for me ripples the very skies; rain-veins on the windows as my candle burns with a hiss. I just killed a man, not a man but myself. My sanity has gone forever and all that this world is left with is the condition. From the clouds their improper faces which glare at my improper soul, spit at my feet, walking in puddles.
Time is the biggest of killers to me. I wish, I wish, I am choking on this wishbone. Within me is only without you. They are the people of the dawn and I am the son of the night, bullets and knives make my halo but loss takes a chunk of body and thread. I screamed for you, your name rang in my ear.
When from the shadows comes brightening hate,
Take their skin and their bones shall break,
Burn their eyes and stab their hearts,
Take their heads and tear them apart.
I am a black flower now in bloom, these words are my toxins. Greatness has no fear, I shall be born great, observe. Would you like some life along with that body? I will poison their minds with my venomous behaviour. The war inside me rages on. Where I will take you now, your eyes will be my weapon.
Finding an equal heart takes time, but losing that heart takes another. They say revenge upon love is the evilest of actions one can do; but the loss of you made the anger build and build and build until a smile arose upon my face and an idea was brewed. Now in the clutches of death we think about the people we would like to bring with us – Good and bad.
Can you hear that? That is the world bleeding, crying with discomfort and it is all because of me! I am never forever but for never. Life or death, neither would survive within me if I only committed to my true nature.
I am holding this world’s fate within my palm, paradise or purgatory, everlastingly within a plummet. A dire need for fire or love, torn would be the word between worlds, neither for me.
I stand now; I stand a man with no future as of yet, twiddled by his past and troubled by his condition but still I stand toe to toe – nose to nose with this epic-fail named my life. Yes it may have a detrimental state on my being but in life’s chess game I can hold all of its weight because they call me Alexander the Great Writer.
I am different writer from all of you, which inevitably makes me stand away from the pack, I’m a lone wolf, you hunt your prey, I am more of a devilish creature; I wait for my food to come to me. Decipher that how you will. But I have watched and seen so many of a’writer creep up to a literary agent with a piece of work or a manuscript, shaking with so much possibility for a publication or perhaps a good phrase. But —
“Excuse me; this is my manuscript, its call Dead on The Water. It’s a psych-thriller novel. Everyone who reads it says it is awesome. Could you give it a read, please?” The writer stammers as he shudders in his boots.
“Sure thing, it will be the first thing I will do right after I do this other thing I have to do.” The clips of the high-heels simmer away through the double doors of the agency.
And what a shock! Nothing comes to pass.
But I devised a plan. One that will be more treacherous and longwinded than your way, I will write a blog! Write everything I can, whenever I can. Gain views upon my work through the blog and social networks. And in time the RIGHT-EYES will stumble upon my words. – The idea doesn’t seem that great when I write it down like that, but if I do my own thing I should get to where I am going through gaining attention. Oh yeah, for all you wannabe writers. A blog can be used as a portfolio for your work, so anyone wanting to know what you write like before contacting you, can view it, so write your best pieces. It’s a lot like putting on your party-dress and attending a ball, you want to be the best piece of polished writing-skirt at that place, so you get lucky and go home for the best damn night of your life. I think I got carried away with that part, I’m back now.
Now my talent or skill; to me it resembles a ship on the ocean, it could be calm and controlled on the water but like the weather, within an instant it can turn harsh, deadly and challenging and then there’s days of waves of poetry; but you have to look out for them.
These words I give birth to can conquer all forever, whatever the weather whether I wither or whether I turn killer and send this world into global terror, I shall. Whether I use poetic stories or general stories to get my emotion pen across, I will, by any means necessary. I may be a female pin-up centrefold and my words may be censored gold, but the reality is my reality is something I can never truly hold, my job sucks and my bed is never cold, fact.
But I write everything and when I say everything, I write everything on my mind at the time I am thinking about writing. But in a way that is educational for other writers due to my ability to play with the words. Also in diary fashion so people just wanting to pop in and check out if other people are having bad days just like them. And then you have my dark side that gravitationally yanks people in to show my mental illness and how I write about it, along with the why strapped to it and the ferocious way I chuck words around that they could never even muster to think about using.
Take away this hurt, please. It feels as if my brains will flower-blossom from beneath my skull, splitting my life into death. I am crumpled on the floor taking this beating from myself because I must; squish my eyes shut so no tears are spilt.
These med-kits have no instant direct-hit on these chugging headaches.
You see I write everything I see. I could be watching TV and everything the characters on-screen are acting I am writing EVERYTHING that I see. –
Davis stretches through the doorway, gun handle strangled, index finger at the ready to twitch. His eyes mean business with his bad acting; but the bad guy is going down. The shadow of a silhouette passes the kitchen door; Davis barely caught it in his peripheral vision.
So on and so forth. Hey, you can always watch what I was writing.
But it is a great way to further your talent. Watch something and rhyme off quickly and efficiently, so when it comes to tackling you work, it’s not only a great piece of writing it’s also a piece of pi$$ to do it.
Keep those pens busy!
Alex – The great writer, it’s got a cool ring to it.
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 aeroplanes. 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.
I treasure my secrets so this world cannot find me. An Xmarks the spot; this is why I write when I am cross. I will wait here for you, I will always be here. Keep digging the dirt from on top of me; you will never uncover my truth. Set sail for a better life, towards the horizon line into the sunset. I cannot stand these calm oceans any longer; I am falling from the edge of the world’s ledge.
This split personality is splitting me in half, personally I am a person of pure fear, I don’t get along with many people, I blow up if you’re here. How would it be if I were famous? That would never happen; if I had a working brain this nameless delinquent would be too dangerous. I forecast more contrast, the light from my eyes have been snatched by a bad-man, gone fast. These naked trees vein over my skies, Alex, stop looking up to those stars unless they’re exploding!
Life is lawless,
Jobless with no benefits,
Hopeless and can’t get to grips,
With this whole mess I am living in.
Welfare will recur,
So will their slurring eyes,
The greatest loser,
It takes time to get use to,
We’re all living in this warfare,
Don’t feed this animal, tattooed,
Check out my new head-ware.
Ill-starred since my life started,
Killed my heart for my writing passion,
My time machine has broken down,
I am reliving my remembered past in a passing glimpse,
I’m turning off my humanity switch,
Hey, these hits happen.
Down this wormhole I go,
Clicking together my heels,
There’s no place like home,
Falling on my face, comatose,
You’re now watch an apocalypse taking place,
I’m diving in headfirst, hold your nose,
I am swimming in insane.
These words play no part in my everyday vocabulary, my existence is a horrific ordeal; ideally I am lost for words. Don’t wake me up from this nightmare; my everyday life is much worse. What can I write to have you on my side? See these horrors I never borrowed in this heart lives only hollowed morals.
Alexander Kennedy. This is a narrative thought processed story of a serial killer with good intentions and also alot of raised questions about her past. Like, Comment and subscribe.
Caution Adivised – Bad Language.
The Serial Killer Part 1. Chalk-Lines and Blood-Spatters
I am going to show all of the saners worldwide, my world.
I guess introductions are necessary at this point, my name is Sally. This is my fifth Vic; I would like to believe I am doing a public service when killing. There are not large job openings on either sides of my curriculum vital, upon one side, my normal job title of TV reporter, advanced literacy conqueror, mother to my little girl, Grace; wife to my beloved Alan, a police officer for six years, seven months and fourteen days. Upon the other side of my page, written in invisible blood, I am a psychopathic murderer.
He lies hogtied in his stripy boxers on the motel bed, wriggling, baby-like; unable to shuffle his little toes just yet. Not yet found his big-boy voice to cry for his mommy, the pervert’s mouth is duct taped; I drew a smile over it in black felt-tip. How dare he anyway think I was streetwalking bimbo; who just came here to fuck the dark memories away, how wrong was he? My dark memories are about to fuck him.
I stick him in his podgy belly with a box-cutter; he groans under his voice in pain, his eyes shut trying to remember a few minutes prior to the cut.
“Stupid little man, I ain’t no prostitute and I certainly ain’t no business venture you can finger fuck over with your board of directors, overtake a small company and leave hundreds of people not only fighting for their jobs, but also money and food to keep their families from harm. This is your judgement Terry Wilkinson, CEO of the Formed Electrics Empire. You make billions off business investments and liquidizing smaller projects assets. And here we are a corrupt billionaire, a motel room and a killer.” I theorize.
I fix up my disguise in the finger-printed mirror, black gloves on, contact lenses and wig. From my jacket I reveal an item wrapped in a black cloth, I place it ever-so gently upon the dresser. And duel my reflection once more.
“Imagine, Terry, a plethora of teeth chattering, heart cupped, fear gulping saner’s, saners are people, which would inevitably be someone like you. Now this mob is being chased, about to be mort by a maladroit soul who is swinging an axe; he is chopping down people who are slow on the foot. This type of psychopath is what I like to call Fire-holders; these fire-holders have always had a problem with society, thinking they have been wronged in some fashion and have to take their angst out on innocent people. Their mental health problems have always been known by everyone within their path of life. Now an ice-holder like me is the person who befriended you years prior to this act of an attack with axing; came round for beers and dinner, basically loved you. But hold your thoughts right there. Within this evil event, I am the person who would suggest hiding within this room where the lock is on the inside, I turn the key and put it within my pocket and reveal my own axe. You see, where the fire-holder only gets a handful of victims, I will get a roomful. I am smarter. I am.”
He begins to shake his head, I believe he wants to get something off from his chest; hopefully it’s his heart; if I remove the gag he will scream as if he was a teenage girl losing her virginity.
“Why are you shaking your head, Terry? Is your head going to fall off? Don’t worry, you will not be forgotten within this world, I want the whole world to know you were killed here in this poggy room, and still you are shaking your head. Here, let me give your head a head-start.”
I pick up the item wrapped in a black cloth and unfold it. An old knife rustic knife lays silently on the material, it has been over used and sharpened so many times, the wonder is, why hasn’t it been trashed by now?
Wrapping each one of my fingers around the handle, I march for a war of wrath against Terry, taking the knife and dragging the life from his throat.
Silence is the scream within the night that screams back around.
Nothingness has his grasp around my trembling hands and vacant eyes. The blood treacle’s from his void, spraying the sheets and carpet red. I wrap my weapon back in its cover, putting him to bed. I made sure I touched nothing and maintain on doing so. I retreat from the chalk-scene and blood-spatters into the danky bathroom, pubic hair toilet rims and used condoms in the bathtub.
I open the bathroom window and making sure no scuff marks are left, I exit cat-like. I do not close the window, the less I touch the less I am likely to be caught. I have no ties to this man; it will look on the news as a sex scandal gone wrong.
Over the brush I travel, not looking out of place, hood up and on a one way mission towards my car which is a thirty minute walk away. I take my high heels off and plonk them in a homeless man barrel fire, no shoe prints. I make no face contact with the homeless man; he was drunk anyway so his testimony is invalid.
I get into my beamer, sitting in my seat, putting my head back while I listen to Otis Redding – Dock on the bay.
I am a killer; I never thought as a child I would amount to anything, now all I do is scare the streets to staying in at night, an old west scenario, when you rolled into town and they closed their doors and shutter windows. I didn’t want any of this to happen but once I started it was for the greater good for my own benefit and now it’s a solution to stop people to find out who I am and what I’ve done. I feel so crippled with this anger of shadows within me.
I know now, I am here from this world’s amusement and disobedience; I am a walking, talking Frankenstein monster, they made me and now they can’t control me. I am worse than any terrorist, thug or nuclear weapon because I know who and truly why I am killing, I put the effort in to know how these people will die in a precise way and I follow no one’s plans. You can call me evil, scum or inhumane but my mother branded me as Sally.
I’m twenty-seven years old and I’ve lost count on how many people have crossed my path and lost their future in some diabolical way. Someday I will take my own life, but before I do I would like to tell you my story, but with every story there is a beginning and an end. So let me take you back to the warm summer in Clayford, a small suburban community. It was nineteen ninety-seven, I was thirteen years old when my soul was taken from me, my father had a rough time at work and I was the one to blame, I was the one who helped his anger process really get loose, the office banter must have been my fault too. That’s when he and his friends came.
I laid belly flat on that ground, burning ants with my magnifying glass. I was a really goofy looking kid and that wavy brown hair was nothing to be proud of. She rolled by on her pink bike with entourage, Lacey Burns, Her dad owed Burns hardware store in Town. She will always live within my memory as perfection. She will always be my first love and first victim.
I’m getting a little too far ahead from head. I think I will leave my coldblooded thoughts to rest in peace for tonight, I do not wish to tell you all my tales, straight away, you’re a stranger. Perhaps another night we can continue.
But for tonight I am going home to spend time with my little Gracey before her bedtime; I like knowing the world has one less corruptor within in. I will sleep well after Alan time. Goodnight and I will be seeing you soon.
Please read it all, it will make sense at the end – Thank you.
Writing is my religion, paper is my temple; now kneel before my God, pen! Your words are senseless, copy – copy – copy – copy. The rules of this writing game, is to take what others have done and rewrite it; what idea is your own though?
Now I am one of those writers, afraid to approach a Publishing House or a Literary Agency because I am fearful of what others will think about my work. I have thoughts pressing against my brow most days, so this blog is a lifeline to the writing world for me. I don’t consider my writing to be good, great or phenomenal, but how I see it is my words do their job, there are thousands of writers out there, with fancy educations and warped minds better than mine who deserve it more than me, so I don’t mind waiting a couple of decades.
I have read so much and in doing so have character built myself; I know who I am now. Yes, I am a little fuzzy on the details and road journey, but I am here with a pen or keyboard, whatever writing tool is available. But I know one thing, I have my own mind!! I do not see Vampires falling in love with humans and thinking, I can have a better take on this story; I MUST WRITE IT AND IT SHALL BE BETTER!! That’s a Stephanie Myers thing, she made that bigger than most orgy stories and it has gone down in history. A clever lady she is, tapping into a market and going for gold. Well done, little Miss!
See for me, I like The Minds Narrative, for example…
“Should I write now? Not too sure Alex, I mean you haven’t slept in thirty-six hours, dawg. Get some shut-eye and blast back on that page, dude. I care about you man, don’t want to see you wander off away back onto the darkland. Write it and they shall come!! You’re a good guy; show them later what’s really inside of your heart. Now get to bed, you ugly fool.”
Yes, I talk to myself in my head and it is very therapeutic to know I am on my own wave length. But I am getting off topic. Let’s get back to the writing aspect.
If you want to be taken serious, you are going to have to amaze the world. Show them something different. But it has to RELATE to people’s lives.
Whether it is dark and emo = Twilight
Sassy and sexy = Any Jackie Collins novel
And so on and so forth. You need your niche! Find it and utilize it to the fullest extent of you.
See mine is dark humour wrapped in a cocoon of pain with a silver lining showing it face every once in a while. My niche.
But I am not saying everyone who types or write is a terrible writer; know where your writing wants to go. If you want the big writing contract (Like most of us do.) Write for it. If you just want to write for general purpose, to ease stress or bare a little piece of your soul, then show it. But know where you want to go.
PUT IN THE WORK NOW AND LIFE WILL BE LESS LIKE WORK!!!
Some days I don’t even know what I am doing, should I be giving up this pursuit of a lit agent? I mean I have the tools and ideas, but I have the urging feeling when I think about doing it, yelling DON’T DO IT, STEP AWAY FROM THE SEND BUTTON!!!! And I don’t, I scurry back off into my corner to scribble all the while people could be taking my dreams.
I AM SUCH A HYPOCRITE!!!
I won’t even follow my own writing advice.
I am lost, lost in a world full of everyone else. But to be honest, I can write a good game, but some days I am not even playing; hence the blog a broken writer.
I’m not sure what I am doing here, I write and people tell me my work is wonderful or awful, I don’t mind but I am just think about my end game, the final trick I will magically reveal.
I’m just babbling now!
I think my blog is broken, I do wish for more views on my wordpress blog but I get I can’t have it all. I can have the skill but no eyes to read it. And if that is my niche in the writing industry for me, I guess I will have to take it.
And another thing, I am getting weird emails from people who are being really abusive; friends just say is jealousy. But these online bullies might be right; I might be a poop sack or deserves theirs pens jamming in my breathing tube. (It’s called a windpipe, my friend; if you had picked up a book you would have known that.) And some other emails are people saying I have stolen their thunder or some S*&t like that. If I have I am sorry!!!
I’m not a bad guy, only confused about this whole writing life and I would like to strive for more, but that slapped hand keeps brushing on by. I did have a dream the other night, where I did get a Literary Agent and she was so fine. Hey, maybe I could write about that???
But I would like to state that my blog has almost reached that glorious number of 100TH POST!!! WHOOP WHOOP!!!! (Man, there are a lot of exclamation marks in this blog post!)
And I couldn’t have done it without you peeps. Some of you have read my work; THANKS GUYS! And some have just clicked the like button, thanks, I think!
So today I am going to Watch season 1 and 2 of New Girl, because this show is fantastic and I am kind of addicted to it. I know I am a guy, I have girly TV fetish, get over yourselves.
If you have read this, I usually know; because you comment about my work and all my goofy wording. So have a nice day!
Keep that pen busy or just work towards your goals in life.
Smell the roses too. It’s good to just stop from the hustle of life.
The world hatched and gave birth to me, silver linings are traced over with bad-luck; I’m mad as fuck, not even military precision prayers could save this mutant of the pen. A pill in my mouth, a bee in my bonnet, high as the clouds, I’m running against comets and anger comments. This motherfucker is climbing out of the gutter, flushing away his past because it’s all shit. Too controlled for suicide; too educated for homicide; so I will imagine them both whilst scratching help signals above my skin. Handicapping and happy-slapping the retard living in my brain, fuck your feelings Alex, for your life, you’re the only one to blame.
Alex, you’re gonna’ die alone. Walking along your path and your only friend will be the freezing breeze to join your cold heart upon an icy chessboard. Cause a supernova of words; turn the cement to flames, skin to lighter fluid and jungles to fire-food. They swept you under the mat and expected you to rebel, I’m telling you; give them a wake-up call to the killing moon. Crimson critics live under your fingernails; green with envy because you are not writing for The Green…
The golden boy shimmers off his shine with a deadly chill. Sucker-punch this fucking world and while they are not looking boot them in the ball into the sun. Exact your revenge upon your Ex-girlfriend who got your hopes up with a fresh start of love, then gave you the middle-finger when she found a new cock to control. Chase after the man who took your smile as a child, run him down and slowly take away his cries. This is the war-cry of a manmade madman, I was not laboratory created and synthesized in a bottle, this is my chemical reaction to this blackened planet with my own two black eyes.
Open my eyes; strapped to the chair and made to watch while everyone took a piece of me and stamped on my innocence as if it were shit. Screaming at the mirror, pulling out my hair, totally lost… I couldn’t talk to the psychiatrist so he kicked me out his club house; the numbness is really taking over, where is he now? Did I fail him or did he fail me? Swallow another pill, self-destruction will cope against hope. I’m a piece of shit; I will never amount past the flies.
I pretend and camouflage well with the nice sane people, but today has taken its toll. Pushing all the right buttons, don’t you know you’re dealing with a potential killer / Writer? Wipe away a tear and wash away all you are with whiskey, you’re a happy drunk, pilled-up to the eye balls, what are you crying for? You are a party animal.
I’m not trying to shock and awe, you probably haven’t read this far down, I had to get it off my chest. No clean versions to life, so bring your fucking swear words; I was watching my mouth, worry about what I write. Don’t worry baby, I still love sex, I really am a freak in and out of the bedroom. Talent? Stripping skin skilfully sinfully so sufficiently such souls scream soundly sweet as they sleep; sayonara sunrise, scaling scary sights as silly-fuckers still stand still. What more do you fucking want? What more do you fucking need? Have I not bled enough with my pen? I can write, final…
I need out of this dirt-ridden poverty, I barely get by with this bare-trap ankle bracelet chained to my home of the brave. What do you know about the street? Except staring at us all from your penthouse suite. I turbo my bad-attitude on my blog, enjoy!!
Mommas’ at the gate shouting come on home,
I’ve got so much hate; I’ll be back sometime tomorrow.
Mission impossible break-out from hospital,
This kid has lost his soul, frostbitten to the core,
Make the most of my living,
When everyone doesn’t want me to win,
So I’m going in for the kill,
Showing a sea of people my fin,
The mister of enigma,
Most sinister move finisher,
This is game-over,
Better get another brain-donor,
I can’t borrow because I lost that.
It’s hard out here for a madman,
Apparently I’m equal to a trashcan,
But I’m embarrassingly evil to say the least,
I’m a badman.
But with this pen of mine,
I line all my enemies in a line,
And swipe and rhyme,
This is a fight for life,
Because I have bide my time,
And now you will have to deal with this,
Writing is my meal ticket,
So I will wait my turn,
Then turn wicked.
This is a close encounter of the insane mind,
Frozen at the top of this mountain,
Beyond space and time,
I take the time,
To look at my life and you know what?
I fucking hate mine.
This is coming off my chest,
I’m flying off these walls,
All these emotions inside can’t be stalled,
It’s time to let loose, it’s time to break free,
Alex has blew a fuse, here comes another side to me…