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.
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 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’m overdosing on madness, this is my design. Stop me before my thoughts make this pen kill again. I’m hiding under my own bed waiting for myself to wake up, monsters lie here. I and the evilness I possess have a tryst and our relationship is based on volatile trust and bad words such as deflesh then devour. You may call my work whimsical fiction with a smidge of tittle psychosis but through my peepers they are iris-portholes to other worlds balanced between love and flames.
I’m lonely, no friends over here but I like it this way, no one enters – no one leaves. You sane people think we are unthinking sharks but the reality is we do ponder about wonders and within this pond we can breathe under deep waters. This world has damaged me more than your eyes can take before you squeeze them shut tight; I wish I was born blind sometimes. These words keep the darkness at bay; I waft a light wherever I go, I am ready for the night-time this time, clutching my pen and teddy-bear tight before bed.
I have hit a precipice in my life, today, while I write this; one where I can stay and enjoy the endless drone of life until I wake up at the age of fifty and tell myself I should have jumped feet first into that black hole. I know and you know I am not normal, well I consider myself as normal through my eyes but it is your observation and critique of me telling me the exact opposite. What will happen if I can’t stop writing? What if I carry on with this and achieve nothing within this skin? What if I acquire all I need with my words? This dream has my reality telling me false lies or un-yet truths. Do I continue or do I put the quill back in the bird? Take a breath, Alex.
Two things are certain, I know who I am and I know my limitations; what does my gut tell me? Perhaps and maybe’s. I am merely a blank page dweller who knits words for people’s amusement, I may not have an obligation to you, yet, but you and I know the killer’s story brings forth their eyes.
But my thoughts can switch from pleasant to scattering around the atmosphere and landing with a confidence with a dark undertone, which even scares me sometime. I can’t help what I think or write, they don’t call it a flow for nothing.
You cannot save me; I only have one hand, the other is only a bald stump with a pen attached. Alex, you’re ugly and no one likes you; start writing your bones outs boy. My knees have given way and my hands are soaking wet with sea-water and blood as I clench onto razor-sharp mountain peaks; our whole world is literally against me at this juncture in my life and I am still holding it up.
They throw their battle fists at my face or mouth but forget I am writer, you want to hurt me? Break my fingers, I’m good with them in all fashions; here’s a small show for you, my middle-finger. Viola!
The sane don’t believe in miracles or dreams, thus this rapscallion slash escape-artist will venture from this abattoir to the best-sellers list of all time. You may think this is my mere reverie or twaddle but this is something I can feel at the end of my fingertips every time I type.
You want it in rhyme form? Not a problem.
The air is always cold in my area-code,
Heavy loads holding malaria,
Better bury my soul,
Spending all February wincing in this hell hole,
Now from this fake burial I will charge a worldwide revolt,
Word to the wise,
First to tell lies,
Alex, now burst into flight,
Turn your words into light,
Be the worst in the wild,
You do not fear me world, but you will fear me; all of you against me, seems accurate enough. What makes me different from you? All of you perambulate through hell but I stop and smell the venom of the fire-flowers because there is no getting out; and I am so sane to the thought of it. I do not write for money nor fame, I write because it is all I have in this world. It is a not just art; it’s an extension of my being so let this human-being become refulgent for once. These are my delusions of grandeur, but one day my work will be looked upon as teaching purposes; or maybe I am striking false matches and blowing smoke up my own Ar$£!
This is the part of life I like to refer to as, mental illness; this is the part of life teachers never taught me about in school; maybe I was ill that day? But you believe in the comprehendible to be your saviour; it’s all about control with you people, ain’t it? Thinking if it can’t be beaten and packaged neatly into a snug little cubicle then it must be a threat. It’s a control technique; weak people like to use it. Smile! That might be you!
Do you think the monsters disappear from me at the end of the day once I have written the story and you have read? Nope.
Order or Chaos?
Order or Chaos?
Order or Chaos?
I’m still in debate!
But I will tell you something real that you can look upon and take with you today.
We’re all raindrops racing to that endless ocean. Some of us don’t even try at life; they look from the ground to the sky and live in the shadow of their beasts. There are people out there who would run at their hurricanes head-on, fist clenched and teeth bared. The majority would call them crazy; to me, they are living up to their fullest potential and not stopping, fearless and facing themselves to become reinforced with an impenetrable vision to become whole in that single second. Why don’t I give it a go and conquer my own life?
I am picking up this pen and writing with the ink of my tears.
I’m the type of kid who doesn’t belong here; I stick out like a sore thumb. They tried to fix me, didn’t work; now they are biting nails around me waiting to see how much I can stamp on these pages before I snap off for good. How much is enough to call enough is enough? I couldn’t control my past but observe how I sculpt my future. Fire-red is the new Blackness, these pages will go up in smoke. These pages are my playground.
This world didn’t break me, I was already broken. And the brick that was thrown through my window, I am holding onto as if it was my dream, because when the time is right, I will make this world swallow what people have done to me. Looks like The Evilness has raised its ugly face again, it’s all only bravado, I just caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My sane-self is trapped on the other side, he sees all; tonight I will be your host and he will be my hostage. Welcome to the Alexander Kennedy Show!
He’s going cuckoo again! Doctors stop the treatment, it’s the wrong diagnosis; I merely write better when I have my head in the clouds. Well, it does give new meaning to higher functioning!
My brain is an intricate web; make sure you don’t get tangled in the words I weave. I’m the type of writer who pretends he’s a spider, for one purpose; to spin the peace symbol around before I chomp down on a fly girl. As a writer you must know I can kill with only finger and a thumb. They say one man’s delusions are another man’s faith. Do not worry; I have faith within my delusions.
I have to beat life because I can’t cheat this death,
I say I feel fine but my heart has raised secrets,
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.