An Evil Writer Kills With A Pen – Part 2

I am setting these pages alight, sending all my pieces of work into ashy memory, my own personal fire-shrine. I am the truest word of a writer so no further need for my tongue, cut it and kill it. I will take you on a voyage beyond the word hell – My diary. I am damaged; light-years from repair and still my severed limbs are crawling and scraping towards this dream. Sitting envious of the moguls flashing their achievements under my nose; how can I conquer my life if I cannot triumph over my own minds functions? I will one day.

They can make it shower hope for the hopeless and money for the poor, all I can ball-up is my ability to draw forth red clouds and make it rain blood upon us all, my bad. My demons swim within my eyeballs; once they surface they surf upon every teardrop. Writing is my way out of all of this; this pen is a leech upon my hand, sucking all my secrets out.

“He’s a mental patient, why hasn’t he begun killing yet?” I’m not sure, maybe I was hatched wrong.

I truly hope this isn’t the last time I lie down, evanescently in my nightmares. I am shredding up these pages with my ballpoint pen whilst having a word tantrum, I cannot stop – I have gone loco.

“If he is not evil, why does sin rhyme with him?” There are so many questions to answer.

I can’t stop these words escaping from the vortex of this pen!

This is coming off my chest,

Because I’m flying off the walls,

All these emotions inside can’t be stalled,

It’s time to let loose, it’s time to break free,

Alex has blown a fuse,

Here comes another side of me!

Dark clouds form promptly above my head, pissing on this world for my misfortunes. It is rather satirical to watch. Lightning strikes drag their fingers of obscurity across the ground with energized iron, rubbing out all that is wrong with land. The ground up-heaves and overlaps upon itself within a ripple effect to become almost a water imitation. The whole world stops watching and hears my pain, the Earth comes to life. The echoing screams from the people whom have sought shelter from this pen drip to a dull murmur as the ground opens a chipped-corner to Hell. Open your mouth! I do not blink as if I were to do so, a tear would fall; I do not breathe from my mouth as if I were to do so, a whimper would wince; I do not care as if I were to do so I would forget this world forgot about me when they said they cared. Let this whole world shudder with my cold shoulder.

I drag my index finger under my right-eye where a tear has clung onto; I look at it sitting on my finger. This is the last of me! I flick the water in your direction. This is what you are after, it’s yours now.

You’re not the antagonist of this story, I am. I could let anyone of you destroy this world but this conflict you waltzed into the middle of has been in the making since my first cut.

You have no idea what this world can do to one man,

If you stay here long enough, you will understand my words.

Help me!

 … … …

I have been dreaming of something better since I picked up this pen.

On this world you need your eyes to be closed to dream. Alex, give me the go-ahead and I shall make it a permanent fixture upon your face.

Saved By An Angel – Part One

I’m going to jump; throw myself from this bridge into its ripple grim grave. I am done with it all, school life, family life; overall life in general. I haven’t got anyone to fall back on and that is the biggest of killers to me. This is no cry for help because there will be none, no opened hand because I have  never been given one. I know if I do this now my stance as unknown will stay the same on this planet, nothingness nobody because no one is there.

Standing on the concrete guard of the bridge looking down, I came to Harper Leap, not only because of the name but also because no cars use this road, now that the new freeway around our town has diverted traffic. The rain hazes the atmosphere with a hush-hand to cover whatever noise I make when I finally figure out this is a bad idea. Only one street lamp above the bridge will be my spotlight to the fame of the obituary column.

Angel

“What are you doing?” A voice from the side of me sasses.

I jerk my neck in fright to the right.

“I’m going to jump. Don’t stop me!” I snarl at the young man’s direction as he holds up his hands in interference.

“Just trying to do my job before it is too late, that’s all.” He protests to the waters wall.

I take another glance at him; he is a young guy, around eighteen-nineteen, black t-shirt and jeans and black dock martin boots; really raggedy brown hair that curls over his face. He is rather beautiful, even with the huge tribal tattoo down his right arm.

“Who are you? …What do you want?” Instantly he shakes his head.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I am Jack.” He jumps up on the wall, walks over with his hand out to shake; I back away, he may want to drags me away from the edge.

“Jack? Jack who?” I insist.

He wipes the drizzle from his clothes, lifts up his head and with a smile.

“Jack. Your guardian angel, Jack.” He introduces himself with a subtle bow.

“Haha! My guardian angel?  There is nothing you can say that will take me from this plummet.” I look again at my grave.

“Your name is Natalie Wallace; seventeen years, four months and six days old. Every time your mom or dad left you when you were a child you would cry, until you gained self-worth and stopped the tears. Your first crush was on a boy Adam Summers in the third grade but he was interested in your friend Grace Atkins, they are expecting their first child out of wed-lock, neither has finance to look after themselves let alone a newborn; your thoughts not mine. When you watched Jurassic Park you wanted to become a palaeontologist like Sam Neil but when you found out there was little or no money involved you backed away from the idea.”

“Wait… How do you….” He jumps my words. “There is plenty more I can tell you about yourself, I am practically your walking talking invisible diary that only you can see. Neat, huh? Where was I?”

“Enough…“ I finish in shock.

Jack takes one step on to thin air, a few steps out he turns and glides back to me, until we are face to face, land and air.

“Give me a week. One week to show you that suicide is not the answer, one week to show you the real reasons for living.” He picks up one of my tears on his finger that flee down my face; he flicks it from his finger into the sky to make a new star, our star. “There are things that you will want to live for, all you have to do is take my hand and agree to it all.”

I am reluctant, but his eyes melt every inch of sin.

“Am I going crazy?” I puzzle everything with my eyes and hands.

“You would ask that when something supernatural happens and now I am in the position to try to convince you of your own sanity and if I don’t have a good enough answer you will kill yourself and then I have to go back up top and tell them that you thought you were crazy because of everything you’ve seen. And I will be really pissed off because I tried…” He stresses his face in his palms. “How about you trust me even if that means trusting you instincts once? I know you don’t do it often but I know, you know, you should do it more. How about that for a speech? I am awesome and pretty to look at, what’s the worst thing that happens? You get eye strain from staring at me too long and you will become amazed by amazement, sweetie.” He cockily puts it with a smirk.

“Okay, one week. I agree to everything.” With the ending of my words the world pushes a furious wind all around. Jack stands with his arms out wide until he is only a silhouette within the huge moon.

I can only make out. “Your first task is to take a risk and have faith in something more than yourself. I want you to …..”

My hair gets swept into my eyes, leafs newspapers and birds spiral around this tornado speeded wind. “What!” I shoot out.

“Jump to me! I will catch you, Natalie.” He fires back.

“Are you out your friggin’ mind?” I fear over to him. He tipple tails backwards with laughter. “Do you really want to go back ten minutes in our conversation?” I grip on to the concrete guard with my fingers. “It looks like you’re going to need some incentive, ain’t-cha’! Just jump!” He point up into the sky, from the dark pit if the grey clouds a trailer is sent downwards.

“You better jump, missy!” He chuckles.

I lunge for him in fear but also in hope, as if I needed him. His arms open wide along with my mouth in a scream. It all turns black.

My eyes open gradually to this farfetched feeling of dreams and reality and how they betrayal me every single time I wake. I fling the blanket over my head.

“So you talk and snore whilst you sleep, that’s a weird trick to have.” A familiar voice peals through.

I chuck the blanket away from me. Jack is perched on his boots tiptoes on the end of my bed frame, arms folded.

“You’re real?” I chide him.

“Naturally I am, well, unnaturally. It’s a school day today isn’t it? I’m coming with.”

I am about to get out when something doesn’t feel right. I reach my hand under my covers and feel around.

“Why am I naked, Jack?” I grumble. “I couldn’t find any clean pyjamas, Natalie.” He grumbles back as he floats around my room, touching everything from photos to panties. So embarrassing. I quickly wrap and ball up my covers around me and rush into my bedroom bathroom, I shut and lock the door and turn to my bathtub. AAAHHHHHHH! “What are you doing here? Get out!” Jack is sitting on the sink with his nose in my diary. “Nothing I haven’t seen before and besides I am reading, go about your business, don’t mind me, pretend I am not even here.”

“Please get out, I would like to have a shower in peace, wait in my room.” Within an eye-blink he has disappeared from the bathroom. “I’ll just wait right out here!” Jack yelps from my room.

“Okay, don’t go anywhere, I won’t be long.” I tug on the shower cord and jump in and place a hand over my heart, it has never burst with so much excitement ever, for anything.

“I have got you some breakfast and something you can wear for school today.” He reports in his deep accent.

My I-pod-radio begins playing. Two princes – Spin doctors.

“I love this track; it’s been a long time.” What is he doing now? I leap back out the shower and envelop myself within two towels. I open the door and from out of nowhere I am dried and fully dressed in a red dress, a new luxurious hair style, make-up and shoes.

“What’s this?” I retort.

“I thought it would be nice for you to wear this today. Before you say anything, I know you don’t wear these types of clothes but you subconsciously and universally agreed, remember. We can always go back in time so you can relive that moment.”

My bed is full of food from the furthest reaches of the world. Snails, lobster, croissants, berries, squid, rare fruits and slabs of steak.

“Wasn’t really sure what you wanted to eat, so I just grabbed a shopping bag from everywhere and brought it back. If you don’t eat the gooey stuff I would recommend on throwing it away before it kicks up a pong.” He chuckles.

“I have a guardian angel. Why you?” Before I even finished my words he responds. “Punishment, I beat up an archangel cause he was talking smack about someone I care about, so I head-butted him and been doing this ever since as a quote-unquote Fallen Angel. It has its up and downs. You meet some really cool people.”

“Well how long have you been doing this?” I enquire as I sit on my beds edge and nibble on some cake.

“About ten thousand years ago, I was Michelangelo’s guardian angel, as soon as I was finished with him he painted the Popes ceiling. But you can’t save everyone; Kurt Cobain, so close, dude.”

“Why me?” I wonder. “Jack floats over on his belly and pokes me on the nose. “In time all will be revealed, I promise. Hurry up and eat, we’re going to be late for you brand new day at school.”

In the space of ten hours my life has gone from tediously painful at time to the exciting marvel from my mischievous guardian angel. Today at school is going to full of surprises. Here goes nothing.

COMMINATORY

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,

Finish him!

This is game-over,

Immoral combat,

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,

I’m hungry!

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…

What Did I Just Write? What Was I Thinking?

What did I just write? What was I thinking?

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.

Raise Hell!

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.

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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!

pics of me for my blog 3

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.

there is evil within us

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.

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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.

sanity-insanity-street-signs-voices-in-my-head-pix

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,

Confounded dreams,

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.

This Pen Is A Monster, It’s The Only One That Gets Me!

what-i-really-do-writer

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.

Lit-Happens-Title

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.

when you start getting resentful

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!

there is evil within us

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.

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And as soon as my stars have aligned, you can then watch me as I shoot! Because I’ll be a Superstar.

Want to Collab? Get in touch.

Mental Health

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.

Hey, here’s my E-mail if you ever need to vent. psychowriteralex@gmail.com

I will be back soon with a new story.

Be good and be safe.

Alex

Who Am I?

demons pic

WHO AM I?

I’m a walking nightmare, my hands around my own throat, can’t shake awake! I’m dying to write dynamic dynamite; writing is my form of dialysis, I need all the badness out. A mental state of emergence has now been issued to you, personally. This is no jocularity; I mean this all the way down to my tormented soul. I’m rattling and shaking, I’m not afraid; you will twig-on when I snap. I’m digging up my own past, shovel in hand; I need answers and resolve some unfinished business, so you can lollop around my questions but remember this is my job, I write like a boss.

Misanthropy over here! So you’re either with me or against me, I’m going to war with humankind. I swindle and hustle my way out from my psychiatrist meetings; they label my big-toe as sane and packed me back to the free-world I am coming to conquer. If you were smarter you would have caught me out. I bring no attention to my shell, I blend in, disappear and robot-dance my way into the crowd, my circuits have shorted but this has made me a bigger man. If you knew my story, you would burn my book.

I’m heat-seeking for inner-peace,

But before I be seated,

These are my proposed proceedings,

I’m pulling out all my deep seeded beliefs,

A concocted mix of special needs, my inner-beast and deceit,

These are the things which live deep in me.

I am a soldier of the apocalypse,

Holding hostage every major metropolis,

If you can’t topple this, copy this,

Looking for my mind,

As I look for a lost wish.

I’m not a writer; I am the reaper of words,

My life is on an egg-timer,

What can be worse than being the worst?

Strand by strand,

I stand before you less than half the man,

I’m a problem they buried,

Now it’s time to raise hell,

The feeling of lost and deserted,

“This is what you deserve, kid.”

I cut myself to excel the bad blood,

It’s all fun in Hell,

Fall down this wonder-well,

Hurry-up before it gets backed up.

I’ve lost my mind,

A search and rescue team,

They can’t find me,

Yeah, laugh it up!

Back when I was fighting for life,

It was frightening,

My personal war of Clash of the Titans.

It’s time to unbind the blind,

And just enjoy the ride.

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I’m not coming down from this high, until I am grounded and surrounded by stars. An operated opened sternum sense of a nonsensical life, I have. My real name is Addict, I pour a bowl of Pill-pops, add my milk or vodka-shots and spoon my mouth what it needs. No more secrets, I am an opened book… I need help, I think. I have isolated all I love with my ice-cold heart. I am living a double life and people are fatigued trying to figure me out. How do I join the living again?

Welcome once again to my ribaldry! Sanctimoniously I dribble around what I truly need to deliver, but effusively I fumble my falsehood. I am a walking, writing blob of human but with a side dollop of insane lollop; you can be just like me. Still impecunious, but that is okay, one day I will dream and wake to a happy ever after. Perhaps I am impervious to a happier time? What I truly am in most eyes is an indemnifying writing object. I have a storm in my heart and love within my eyes; can’t I just touch the tip? Insatiable! I’m I accurately jejune to you?

Alex Kennedy – Creative Writer and Mental Patient

First-off I would like to thank you for stopping by…

I write because words are all I have; I’ll out-rightly out write you because you write what is rightly right!

My name is Alexander Kennedy, I am 33 years old and live here in Kingston Upon Hull – England With my Wife (Cacilia) And my Children (Alexander and Felicity) As a young “Mental Challenged” teen I quickly developed a love for rhyming words (Aspirations of becoming a white rapper/ poet.) But I didn’t know it was the love for the shock of words I loved.
But after a few years on the poet scene I found out the words I used were no longer filling that void within me. I needed a challenge while I was attending a mental health hospital for delusions, unable to tell the difference between reality and dreams, walking around and having terrors form right before his eyes, all the while trying to keep my “Normal life” held together. I found a way out in Short stories and Screenplays. I generated myself as a novice pen-man. But as I marched my way through the writing scene, the words I was using did not have the same effect on me, so thus a novel was needed for his void. Taking all of the distorted images of people and events within my life, I create some of the weirdest and dark toned stories.
To keep my void filled I must still tackle all of my writing on a weekly or daily basis to ensure my pen doesn’t get lazy.

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“I have been to hell when I was boy, when I arose from the fires I became a man; now, living out my life as an act to fit in to a place I can never truly be part of, so I write worlds I remember to entertain you from the darkness that raised me.” – “Psycho-Speak” Alex Kennedy.

If you would like to send us a private message, YOU CAN! We will receive your message and relay it back to Alex. The link is below. (NOTE: If you could leave us a short comment upon this page stating you have sent us a message, it would be appreciated, as we are not always on the email. Thank you.)

If you would like to talk to me about my writings or possible representation or guest-blog please use the e-mail below.

psychowriteralex@gmail.com

“I am a real life Mental Patient. Now I shall show you a world within the one you live in.” – Alex Kennedy

(YOU STEAL OUR MATERIAL, MY LAWYER WILL HUNT YOU DOWN! …May I just point out some of my earlier stories, from years prior, are from when I was mentally ill and on meds, so there maybe some spelling mistakes and weird twists. No I will not change them! They remind me of a time when I was less than myself now. But as I have grown, so has my work and spell-checking. Thank you.)

HAVE YOUR SAY AND TELL ME WHAT YOU THINK! Thanks for reading.

Pages of madness I write and sleep with upon my bedroom walls.

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My writing 1
My Writing 2

My First Post of Madness… Enjoy!

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?