Category Archives: My Insane Scribblings

What Did I Just Write? What Was I Thinking?


2014 Alex kennedy

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.

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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.

 

 

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There’s No Sense like Nonsense


day-of-nonsense

There’s No Sense like Nonsense

I am the devil and I am here to do the devils work! I’ve got my fingers on my own pulse, everyday my body is losing the idea of me. I walk in the sunlight and I burst into a paper ball of flames, bring your marshmallows and shovels; we’re all going on a family trip to hell! I am not fighting myself anymore, I always end up winning. One cut, two cut, three cut, floor. I am neither no longer holding back, I’m throwing this pen and paper at your head; catch them with your eyes. Where I will deliver everyone worldwide, their imaginations will be my weapon against them.

holy gibberish batman

Manipulation is the key. Evil Writer – Evil Writer – Evil Writer – Evil Writer – Evil Writer, every time you hear those words, you will think of me! I am lying naked on a morgue slab cutting open my own chest; the crack of each rib bone is the equivalent of the crunch of an apple bite. Well how else do these people want to see what the hell is going on inside of me? Insert heart here!

pointless

I’m a born again writer, why do you think I engrave death on so many pages? Literature will etch my focused ambition from here to the after-world. The gibberish I glibly glide over these glazed pages comes forth as exact natters of my scatterbrains, battering, psych-complaints, medicines, time-restraints on my minds mental states, time to splatter my brains-cloud right down this papers page, do you even realize the rhymes I’m writing in wait? I can’t put this razor down now, there’s more to just saving face.

I’ll out rightly out write you because you write what is rightly right! I may be the antagonist of my own story but that doesn’t mean beauty doesn’t grow within me as a poisonous wild flower. I feek through these hallways talking to the darkness; but before I beblubber I will bestow a blunder of ideal ideas constructed in blood-bubbles. The longanimity keeps me grounded, how can I end my life when I have too many persons from the past to revisit, I need absolution. I defile these pages now. I dollop of dull life mixed with drawcansir and the male equivalent of a drazel. When you get to hell, tell the devil he can suck my pen!

RandomNonsense

You’re all staring upwards, which stars do you want to be? I will gain an entrance into forever as I dig downward on these pages. I’m running from my monsters I create, I fight and eventually kill myself; all I have is this cemented war cry for it; in essence sweat, blood and tears. I am slipping away into the darkness; I am becoming a son of the night while everyone stays children of the dawn. I need help! My only medication is word dialysis as the demons have pitched home in the corners of my fingertips.  I am hungry enough I could eat this paper I am writing this upon. I can’t sleep at night the monster growls within my belly; the ache keeps its pincers clenched. I roll and I thrash, I am being eaten by this. Money has greatly escaped my entire trouser pockets have miraculously sprouted holes. I think this world is trying to tell me something, don’t you?

This evil pen is an instrument of fire, writing out my empathetic feelings means I am gambling with life and death every time I scribe. I am finally alive; life oceans through me along with my brainwaves towards the thought of psychosis, tsunamis inside. You’ll all pay! The doctors tell me I am a Mattoid. I L-L-L –Loath you! Sorry, towards the nicety of harmless words I have lethogica. I’m digging deeper into my mind, the place where I buried anyone that has crossed me from the past.

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My Evil Pen Told Me to Write This – 3


bleeding

My Evil Pen Told Me to Write This – 3

I am a mere scab upon this world as the whole planet wants to pick on me. Beware world, this is my turn! When I straddle this pen, I can kill you with my mind. I would scribble this world as an ignited cherry-bomb to have revenge upon you and you alone. Why individually miss a target when I can wipe clean the table in one sitting? I have eaten a dictionary. Each page thrashes out and rustles with a shiver with the knowledge of what my pen is about to carve upon its skin. Get them, boy!

if i fall asleep

I am wearing my madness as a medal; this world will not allow me to forget what I am, so neither should I. Bring forth your scrolls of paper and your flickering quills, condemn me, crush me and quarter my limbs; for I will write myself a new destiny, one where you are all alone in the darkness where I have lived, let us see how the monsters shall treat you in time.

michael phelps

I am running on the fumes of past fears, my memory sticks out from my brain as a protruding cocktail sticks. Lobotomize these thoughts forever Alex! There is madness in my method of writing, yes, but my method in which I use helps tame the madness into a constructive horror show for you all. I am a master sculptor with a pen, chipping away at my mental illness so you can see revulsion from my perspective. Behold a masterpiece from my membrane pieces. Doctor, open me up and fish these voices from me; Priest, open my soul and take this ghost that is haunting the hallways of this body!

ernest hemingway

Fear is only a choice – A brain tidal wave! I choose to grant it, as it is the only thing to ever stay consent within my life and thinking. These words are actually flesh-eating ants, that when you inhale with your eyes, they feast upon your brains. Yummy!

If you think reading is boring

I am cold towards this world, hence the shoulder barge; I am marvellously a marvel with a heroic heart which has stopped beating; I am burning words along with my cape to keep mildly warm from your frozen breathes.

rained upon

I am running naked in the rain for revenge, pointed fingers and tuts ensue. I have made a deal with the devil; if I use him to write and give him a purpose, he would return the favour. My words are jumbled and my blog is a jungle book; can you hear me roar in pain on my pages? My apple has fallen light-years from my family tree; my DNA is not even human, let alone the same as my mothers.

Risk

I’m living in your walls; I know all of your dirty little secrets. What you do when no one is looking and what you think to yourselves when no one is around. You’re all damaged, just like me. I was brewed in the chaos of humans malfunctions, now I have doctors telling me I’m the one that needs fixing?

edgar allen poe

“You have me confused with all of them, wait! Please don’t lock me up, I was happy before they came into my life and broke all of my windows.”

Now I am smashing each of their windows in revenge, well, I do need a breakthrough. Haha! I’m not aiming for the stars, the sky is far enough, this where I will explode into smithereens and my ashes will twinkle downwards upon the clouds and wreak havoc with acid rain. Is it a bird? Is it a plane? Nope; it’s only blindness for looking for me. Haha!

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My Evil Pen Told Me To Write This – 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!

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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.

Create - For the blog

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Writing My Fear Out


fearless

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.

fearless 2

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,

He don’t,

Alex, now burst into flight,

Turn your words into light,

Be the worst in the wild,

Fear not!

stand up

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.

tornado

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 am the fearless writer!

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