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 cool, 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 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 peal my skin and try and 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
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 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. not wish to confront. But just know I will take everything from you. This is all I know. This is my design.

3 thoughts on “Writers Of The World Should Raise Hell

  1. Hey. Good morning. I’d like to read your blog but::::: Just a piece of “advice”: you want an old sight deficient fart like me to read your blog? Contrast is the word. Black on white. Gray on gray is not a communication device. Just sayin’. Well, let me see if I can get through this entry:::: sigh.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Of course, nothing is black and white, is it? And it is where we cannot see the blur between that we find both the light and the darkness. BUT. I still find it hard to READ gray on gray. OH WELL<WHAT THE HELL. I'll follow even if I have to squint.

      Liked by 1 person

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