Each blink is too long and each beat is too much to cage and bare, so I shall rip off my eyelids to keep you in my sight’s a little longer and tear through my chest and place myself as a sacrifice to the goddess of my inner war. My lips become unworked and dry without your pressure and I wonder and pace in circles to this addiction called you, your essence or smoke clings to my lungs, I know each inhale is deadly but the remembrance will one day be my murderer. I know you have found your feet and walked the ground you stood on but you left a blood-trail when you drove your hand through my ribs, clasped your fingers around my heart and dragged it off to the unknown, thank you. I have tried to rip and burn the photographs of you but your witchcrafting spells are protection against your stillness towards the weak. It feels as if I am chained to a monstrous mountains peak of snow and I am kneeling at its feet, tortured to watch the skies clouds that have now been replaced with images of our better times and precious seconds. There was no Cupid with a bow and arrow only a silent thief with a dagger. No medical diagnosis or prescription to help me now, the only answer it to go cold turkey, the oldest of remedies and cures but it will surely almost destroy me as you have ripped out my insides, cooked them and now I am ready to carve. The thought of you make me throw-up, not in a sickening way to your portrait but fear, anxiety, frustration and anger, those are the invisible fingers down my throat.
Thank you, Love.
For my Writing Friends
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.
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.
I’ve been your rambling writer.
That would be me… The Worst Writer in the World
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…
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.
I scrape my nails across my face,
Self-hate has set sail for that new place,
A doomed fate,
The world is clueless to this,
It’s as easy as tying my shoelace.
One thousand screams,
Come huddle round my murder scenes,
Doctors try to de-feather me,
But they looked further in me,
And heard him climbing.
Now I’m breaking free,
They took everything from me,
Here’s their severance pay,
For all eternity.
Living in this glass cage,
Stopping me from a rampage,
But this is my bat-cave,
I’m planning your last days,
While you’re in the fast lane,
On this world as a bad stain,
The world will have a bad day,
Now watch as I make the glass break
And come around your way.
My True Love
There was an accident; I just got the phone call. I run and I run and run past my lungs threshold, she is all I care about. Bypassing people’s thoughts as I sprint to her in the middle of the road, stopping traffic in its footsteps. The rain is against me, stings and pinpricks on my skin, the raindrops cover my tears as it washes away my hurt. Unnoticed to the beeps, finger gestures and vulgar language, none of that matters, only her. I live for her and I said I would die for her, will it come to either? Please, Lord, do not take her… She has saved me over and over again. I can hear the sirens; they are like gunshots to my ears, my heartbeats circulates my body unknowing in which way to turn, I can feel it in every limb that moves towards her, each step is one more closer.
I try not to think into what has happened, but my heart is tangled up within my imagination. Laid crippled and knotted, faceless and memory-less of us or vehicle impaled, taken by someone’s concentration. I can finally see the flashing lights and emergency personnel. I stop my raging feet and bring myself to the walk of concern, my fingers keep grip to the phone that had imprinted this thought upon me.
The police are not letting anyone have their eyes nightmare clenched; I cannot see anything as an ambulance is blocking mine and her fate. I climb over a police cars bonnet, vigilant to their sight, just to gain a look. I do not want to miss you, it took me years to find and keep what we have. A car lies on its side, broken and no longer road worthy; its underneath faces my way, paramedics kneel around the roof, running back and forth from the ambulance to get supplies. I walk into the unknown with a heavy tears and heart with a quivering lip. She is pinned under the car, the pain emulates from her in screams.
I stand unmoved, what do I do? She sees me finally, within that first second no time passed.
She raises her shaking arm, holding out her hand for me. I rush over and take hold of her invitation. It is hard for her to breathe, taking big gulps of whatever air she can take in. I brush her hair to the side, just so I can get to see my love. We both share in the moment a smile, no words, unable to speak; the shock must have hit us both. Just hold on to me. She turns her head away from me; she does not want to look at me… Have I done something wrong? Is she mad at herself because of this situation? I take my wet index finger and place it around her chin and turn her back to me to let her know I am here forever with her. She gives me that look, the one I wake to every morning. I bow down and kiss her for aslong as possible. A hand on my shoulder, a police officer picks me up and tries to usher me away from my destiny. I rip and thrash, all I want is to be with her.
She screams I can feel it in the pit of my stomach; this is not a scream for me but a personal one. The pain must be gnawing its way through her. No one is doing anything, no one. The police stop their job, the paramedics take over my position. I see through a slight opening between two medics her face, she needs me, more now than ever. If she is mine, this is my test. I slip away from the policeman’s hold to the car, one final glance; I squat down and reach my fingers under the car. It will not take her from me; I begin to pull up with all my strength, bear my teeth. I want to see her again, raise our children together, kiss her before I go to work, spend another valentines day with her, put a padlock on her finger, not visit a grave stone every year, stare out my window for days, cry myself to sleep, have to move on to second best, No… never.
I let out an almighty roar that would bring a battlefield full of one hundred thousand solders to pain I will feel if I lose her. I will stand up, I will and I will take this pain from her, even if that means cursing it upon me. I exhale all of my air, the car begins to lift. I must take this throbbing within my arms for her sake. I straighten my legs and back, she is my one, keep elevating, the car is off the ground leveled with my chest. I turn my head, my neck is stiff. The medics pull her from the wreckage and are able to attach and inject the proper equipment and medicines.
Your love makes me stronger, the man I am, more than I was, this is for you. I jump back from the death-dealing machine; it falls with more of its shell being broken.
I turn with a smile, her eyes have closed, no movement. They put her on a stretcher and load her onto another bed and head for the closed ambulance, the doors are wide opened they are trying to make her breath, pressing down on her chest five at a time then breathing the air back into her.
They stop, unable to do more. No… I will not have that, you cannot just give up on her because she is unresponsive, she usually acts that way it is a trick she likes to play. The world has stopped completely, I run over to the ambulance and climb in, they try to fight me off, but I am not that easy to stop in my tracks for something I want, ask her. I push them out of my way and bend down and pick up her head and lay my lips to hers.
The ambulance begins to quake, medical objects falls from their place, the doors begins to throw open and close again, there is a light that could outshine the Sun’s rays. Her eyes shoot open as she takes her first gasp of air and another until she is settled and coherent. She smile at me that way again, I mirror her back as she pulls me into another kiss, this must be a thank you but in true fact it is me who should be thanking you, my love.
Today has been a busy day, finished my fifth novel and started my sixth. Wrote and uploaded four new blog posts and in the middle of all that I took the kids to the park, cooked, cleaned.
But it’s all thank to all of you that I am sitting here with a smile in my face. Because of you, everyday I take a step or two to my goals in life.
If you keep reading it, I’ll keep writing it.
Thank you, again. Have a nice night. 😁🙏🏻