Standing in the flames of these words, all I can do with them is set my world on fire. I’m enjoying this pain; let us dance on the ashes of this painful reminder, life. I am more human than human. I cape over this page as if I were a marvel, bitten by a radioactive firefly; guess what my power is? My self-destruct button has been detonated, a magic mushroom cloud you can read as a nightmare. Do you have smoke in your eyes or are you rubbing your peepers in amazement? I’m drowning on this page; I jumped straight in this deep end, my pen is my life-guard; but don’t save me yet, I’m on fire!
Stop reading this! My words concocted with my pain can burn out your eyes. You don’t use them anyways; you only read half the stories or read into half-truths. My flair never spontaneously combusted, I had to find the strike for the right match for my mind to go up in flames. I’m enflamed with empathy, I’m flame-retardant; my crazy is never empty. I’m bringing an archaic firing to this paper; this is my form of an S.O.S! I’m holding up my lighter towards the sky. Too intense for the eyes to warrant a tear, my skin will burn and bubble and eventually seep off from my bones. I’m reheating my memories for my fire-demon to slurp up for dessert. Revenge is ice-cream! A dish best served cold; I run on scolding hot exhaust fumes; how can I bestow a forest-fire on all those that are cold?
I’m living in the past with these third degree burns, scars have funny ways of reminding you of past mistakes you have made. I scribble with sizzle, fizzle and scrape. I’m breathing an inferno while it’s raining torrential, steaming up your computer screen.
I’m a jack of all trades,
I’ve gotten the rapid response late,
When I blow my top,
Along with volcano rocks,
My magma words roll this way!
Am I destined for greatness with my stories or am I flying too close to the sun? That’s right, melt my wings, boot me out of heaven; I’m already living in Hell. I’m rain-dancing naked, let it reign fire. I’m only a phoenix rising from the ashes, so let me write in peace.
To look at what a writer does from this perspective doesn’t hit the bone; this only shows you the skin. Writing for me and many other worldwide is pure magic. It is the belief in oneself when words are all we have; and now the whole world has some sort of writing device in front of them. We can all be writers.
But what this doesn’t tell you, from of all of the “Writers” out there; there are scribblers who are “True Writers”
These creators of stories and other articles do not give up. If they blog like myself, no matter how many people are viewing their work or if they would ever get noticed but a publishing house or literary agency, they will keep writing because it is all we have at the end of the day.
But I have to hand it to people; some do try at their writing and give up after a certain period of time because they find out that it is harder than it looks. But you have it in you to make a difference within your life.
Keep at it and show the world what is within you.
Have a look around my blog and see the different types of writing styles and stories you could possibly write or go on to write when you are ready.
Practice makes perfects and re-writes make a great story writer.
Sorry this was a short post, I will make sure you have something great to read later. 🙂
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 skillfully 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 suites. 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.
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.
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?