I’m In Love With This Pen, I’d Kill For It

A Monster of a Writer Lives Here!! – I Told You Not To Click!!! –

 

I believe in my words, as you do fairy-tales. One day a silver lining shall prevail over all of my darkness. But until then, I shall cut clouds azure veins and make it rain blood-red, twirl underneath something so passionately beautiful, I need you to see what is inside of me; what I am capable of doing, become tantalized by the colours of my soul. This page is writer’s stage; I’m sacrificing myself to the music of horrific words for your entertainment only. I’m leaping from buildings and drowning in an oceans currents, currently at the end of this pen I am immortal; nothing can stop me for achieving this deathly desired gift from life, turn the page and gain a paper-cut from me, even my words feed on your blood.

 

monster-writer

Keep going, Alex. Keep going! Show them all what you can do with words, out write them all, have them think twice about you! “Who Said That!!” Shuddered the writer, his fingertips quake over the space-bar and mouse.

 
Bite those fingernails down to the bone, keep going and swallow your arm, for this one idea you are looking for. They have gangs and hordes armed to the teeth, you laugh through your teeth and bring forth an undead alliance with the real monsters of this unnatural world, watch them cross you now, forever is all you have to get ready for war, luckily we are not men of the cloth.

 
Every word is a brick, so you say; are you building a new home for a new life? In my eyes, Alex, you are only another brick in that wall, the one that is holding up all of your foundations, do you not know that you are supposed to space your life out evenly. Hahaha! Mr. Broken!

 
I’m trying to escape from this haunted house from my bedroom window, the room has started to bring all of my nightmares to life; but as soon as I do I am dangling from my ankles from the windowsill, the evil is keeping me here. The whole neighbourhood has come to have a gander at something more damaged than them. Don’t help, I’m not scared to be dragged under this bed again. The monster under my bed ate the monster in my closet, there is no comfort within home. Come live with us, Alex, you are one of us.

 

the-monster-undre-my-bed

 

I like the idea of becoming a writer; you can’t blame me for believing in it, I’m a dreamer. No colour but so vivid, so close as I hand-slap myself away from grasping it. Maybe it’s not for me? Maybe I’m holding this pen wrong? Even if I have to steal the sun and use it as a bargaining-chip to ensure this dream doesn’t flourish away into the back of my mind as another failure, I will!

 
This pen is my Excalibur, with so much calibre that when I write people board up the doors and windows to make sure the evil I conjure doesn’t come knocking. Nothing grows upon the pages I write upon, death lives here, the birds migrate around me and wind changes direction to ensure it doesn’t come in contact with my shell. Something’s cannot be explained, plus the mystery brings in the readers.

 

I’m in love with this pen, I will kill for it.

 

leave-this-book-alone

 

They have tried to stop me from writing before; the priests came for tea and they tied me to the bed, they asked me cease and I projectile vomited all over them. I’m still chuckling. This is my way of exorcising my demons, do not read; do not think, close this page; they will come get you.

 
I only have one question. When is enough – enough? When will I know I have reached the end dark adventure? If I scream through my words would you be able to see the stream down my face?

 

 

You’ve made it this far down, leave a little LIKE & COMMENT! Thanks…


 

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I am Wild Boy

I am Wild Boy – Part 1

My mother’s face was a blurry smudge within my memory; luckily I don’t remember her; Dad spoke in his sleep and what he did to that poor woman… He didn’t leave her with much of one when we fled from her murder scene. I do remember the car trip though; I sat in the back seat swaying side to side while he drank bourbon driving away into a permanent foggy madness. I sat clutching a half eaten cookie in my toddler Parker jacket next to a duffel bag of Pistols, Rifles and enough ammo to put shame on any small war faction.

 

We were on the run from our old life to build a new-one off the grid, way to the backend of vast frozen nothingness which was our destination and where we were to begin our survival training. He told me he built this cabin for me and mom to come to when the world had gotten too much for us. It was tacky and crooked but it kept the rain and snow at bay and held warmth when the cold-rolled in. Dad evolved into a bedraggled ragamuffin, me, I transformed into a wild boy. Our own filth and stench was covered by rotten animal carcasses.

 

There was only so much I could do as a child but he took me hand in hand on hunts, sometimes he even allowed me to deliver the killer-blow to our prey. As the years shredded the photo memories of me and my dad, I grew into a routine machine; he called me his ‘special weapon’. Up before dawn crept upon the valley of forestry shadows, the aim was to kill, train, hydrate, train, eat and rest. I know nothing else.
We agreed to put off the childish treatment, so when hand to hand combat was the training for our afternoon, he laid into face until I bled and swelled. But he was getting on in life so when my muscle formed harder, I made sure I put him on his ass. Knife throwing, dismantling and assembling Guns and Rifles, martial arts, body and mind endurance, hunting, tracking; I became a black-belt in it all. In all honesty, I forgot about the world which scurried along beyond our tree line, when I hit my mid-teens I did think and wonder if there was anything else within my world as I sat on the edge of a mountainside or stood at the top of the trees gazing at the sunset.

 

One winter my father fell down with a bout with what he called pneumonia, he stopped his training, sleeping and eating; his breathing became erratic and body shifted to weakness. He couldn’t do much, so I trained by myself, hunted by myself, ate by myself, he died and then I started talking to myself.
I left his body within his room, I never stepped foot beyond the nail jagged door frame. I was now the King of this vast plant and animal life; the routine was I had and knew, so I pushed on further into the year of kill or be killed by the unknown.

 

Several Years Later

 

If I knew what depression was I would find it happily. Before ever daybreak I would sit in a couch position at the edge of my father’s bedroom door, perhaps he will wake up today. I wait until the sun’s ritual breath edged over the window ledge before I would do my daily bidding until the eyes of the dark skies blinked at me. Fearless to the predators and elements, they must sense something dark within me. The morning was skin nipping from the cold but the idea of victorious kill kept my blood steamy. I head towards the feet of the humongous wet-white hill, the deer huddle and graze within this area. A family a nestled nicely next to small stream which lines through my land. I would never think of harming something scrawny or motherly, I have my sights set on the papa-deer. I clutch my hunter’s blade in my hand; my eyes do not stray, before I move a muscle I think of the kill in every way, good or bad. Small rocks which collect at my feet, I pick one up and I subtly throw it away from the deer, so their attention would be towards the possible predator.

 

At the last few seconds before I sliced into my prey, a thunderous roar echoes throughout my valley. There are no storm clouds wandering above the trees. The deer scamper far into the tree line. A gargantuan wheeled hog type creature hurtles into my view at the other side of the trickling stream. Is this a new animal I have never seen?
Four men heavily armed with shotguns exit the hog. They are each dressed like greenery, perhaps to blend in. I scurry on my belly closer to get a better look. Dad always said people may be after him, could this be them? Could they be here for me? Are have they come to disrupt my kingdom and steal my food? One thing is certain, if they have, no four shotguns will stop be defending what I know.

 

I will recon for now and make a decision when the time is right. Keep your knife to your side Nick, it’s all you have.

How to Out-Writer Other Writers…

Using words only have a certain effect on people, but you are trying to amaze people with words, aren’t you?
Here are a few tips to further your work.
• Study Poetry and Song Writing.
• Hook their eyes.
• Find Better words.
• Figure people out.
• Say, Said, Replied and Shouted
When you become a pro at these writing styles you will open up a form of writing, such as poetic views.

 
1. Instead of writing. “Her hair was red.” You can write. “Burning with fire she spiral spins, each lash of her hair lets off burning embers.” This shows you have giving something mind-numbing a life and that anything can be a character.

 

 

2. CATCH THEIR EYES! “Suicide, Suicide on my mind, all the time, everytime I close my eyes, I always think of suicide, suicide on my mind, all the time, everytime I close my eyes, I always think of suicide.” ~ Chorus from a song I wrote when I was seventeen, but it is powerful not only to hear but also to read, it says alot about what is going on.

 

3. Your language bores me. Spice things up, would you? Your quintessential plethora of pastiche will transform you into a gilderoy beyond anyone else. – But make sure you don’t study the thesaurus and only use the words because you can; there is a time and piece of paper placed for that manner. Don’t just use a educated word because you can.

 

4. Learn the basics of Psychology. Body language is always a good key to write about. “Scratching his head before the light-bulb turns on. He turns on his swivel chair to mirror her.” This will give the reader a truer feel of characters.

 

5. Say, Said, Replied and Shouting. I HATE THESE WORDS! If I can get around not using them, I will. But I know if I cannot, atleast I tried. “Help me!” James Storms over the fists of the ocean. See, it gives a broader picture than James Says, doesn’t it?

 

 

These basic rules will help you drag in new readers to your work, there are more but I will post them at a later date.

 
Keep those pens busy….

 
Alex.

 

Exorcising The Evil Out Onto The Page

Yes, that’s me in the picture… Let me begin.

Live a moment in my unmovable momentous monument, it might merit your millennia, like it did mine. Seeing sycophants, building psycho fans with their slippery rants, they’ll all need to switch their pants when they get the chance, because the King has returned, skinned burned, skinny and malnourished. I pay penance with a petrified pen, play writer in the eyes of the Earth, praying liar flailing around in the fires of my moral wire or mortal-coil, my sport is horrible, spurting spectacular humble spots forward onto smashed mirrors, what hurts the most is what has been cast within us, the foreword has hatch the final villain, he’s me, bad-ass and brilliant, lavished in the ink-blood on millions of killed innocents.
As a matter of fact, it’s a matter of pride and it hangs high… Like my rope choking around my necktie. I produce each body of work until my body is hurt, emerged from this body of dark water to show you my curse. Should I have said sorry first?? This folly is my curse to curse on the cursed. I feek and wamble through forbidden parts of my flaccid foamy thoughts, welcome to my shilpit stuck shtick of a shipwrecked existence. I threap the idea of my deep pipe-dream and chisel into my bones, I will form my face on a platform of predictive pandemonium. Keep writing, keep writing; leave life within the leap of your lies, the skies are dull, a spotlight, I’m hit by cheap lightning, so I cheat at the chessboard fights and confess wrongs rights, righteously.
Rampid scarlet nights, wrap rapid around the pad of writers might, until I’m knee riding, let’s set this carpet alight, realign my alien mind, I put a space between ship, relation or friend… Why???
Life, Love and death, most certain to happen at one point or another to everyone, you have no choice in these matters, neither do the Gods nor the devils, you may have a slight influence on when they may occur, but you can never cause these forces to react by your own will.
Dig deeper to find my heart, I will hold yours over you, with a xiphoid object, time stops to observe, I’m from projects, time to write more the world conserved.

As a Writer, What We All Expect…

As a writer just like you, I do hope for a literary agent one day. I guess we all have that dream to be up to the same stance as Stephen King, J.K. Rowling, Edgar Allen Poe or even Jackie Collins… So on and so forth. But While I wait here at Rock-Bottom or at the Bottom of the Ladder I am able to perfect my skill and gain an audience.
Now I know when writing a blog every page always hits a Dead-Point when no one is coming in especially when your dream is at stake. But DON’T STOP! I don’t mind if I get 20 views one day and the next day 200 views on my blog because I have faith not only in my writing but also myself and time will form my future.
Now I know we all have dreams, we all just drift away and think of a life unlike the ones we are living now and a writing career where you are at the top of your game and no one can stand to you.

If you want greatness, no one else will pick up that pen.

But I have seen writers do the minimum amount of work and expect the world to fall at their feet and call what they do as art. ~ Hang your heads in shame. ~ But I have also seen writers like this gain a writing-contract and deliver everything that no one wants. Awesome!
But I have also seen people do the maximum amount of writing and still heading nowhere.

Show your feathers and you will fly.

Be something more than yourself; be like The Dark Knight and become an idea, an idea that is unbreakable, unmoveable; do not show your scars – create your own. And from this an audience will form and follow your shadow. This is when you become great.
Think of yourself as a superhero creating your persona; each time you type you save a soul and the more you save the more your name flies around the globe. Until the time a literary agent comes forth from a spaceship and presents you to the world of Fame and fortune and hands you a costume and forever you will never be able to be defeated.
Yes, I do realise that is a little far out there but it make sense to me. Haha! So be Clark Kent for a time, grow into your powers and soon you will become Superman. (Yes, I have seen Man of Steel, found it to be Awesome!)

 
But do not write for Fame or Fortune because all you will get is broke-pockets and fewer friends than when you started.
We all start somewhere but being at the bottom isn’t all that bad because it just shows us where we want to arrive.
So, do your work, take your time and don’t reach for greatness sooner than you’re ready. In time everything will come.

 
Keep those pens busy….
Alex.

The Broken One

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 with go up in smoke. These pages are my playground, push me and I’ll swing.

This world didn’t break me, I was already broken. And the brick that was threw through my window and did it, 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,

I may be in deep rhyme as I’m sitting at my desk,

As every night I die because my mind can regress.

I’m morphing into a monster,

Everybody stand back!

This horror-show I’m applaud in,

Know I have the quickest-hand on this pad,

Stand back!!

Writers Of The World Should 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 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.