Category Archives: Teen

I have that Spark – Poem


fire

I have that Spark – Poem

Whatever the weather, whether I wither or whether I’m sempiternal,

Fired-up and eternal,

I’m a spirally turning as an inferno tornado,

These drugs had me tied-up,

Now I rise up as a periscope to show the way home,

I have some revenge to cash-in by the pay-load,

You’re not saving this damned kid,

This demon is going to flay his soul,

Stealing the meaning of his life, Hey-Ho!

All of my words have been censored gold,

I’m pulling this world apart as a centre-fold,

There’s no end to my road,

So there’s no sending me home,

I’m living in the darkness of a Hell’s hole,

And it’s impenetrable,

A mission impossible from this psychiatric hospital,

I’m breaking out, I bet you all!

This pencil bestows thunder in my hands,

We’re all crazy here!

I’m Alice in Wonderland,

My colours blur to overstate what’s over here,

I’m passing you it with an underhand.

This is all one man’s mad mind,

Run while you can still hide,

Love while you still have,

Because I’m taking all you hold in your hearts,

Charting towards the cold water with sharks,

Don’t bank on me coming back as me,

Because I’m blowing your homes down with gasoline,

As I have the spark.

 

Creative Writer Alexander Kennedy.

And just a heads-up me and my girlfriend are having a baby boy! So Happy!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

1 Comment

Filed under 2014, 2015, Articles, Author, Blog, Blogging, crazy, Creative Writing, Dark Poetry, Drug Addiction, Entertainment, Fiction, Help, Life, Literacy, Mental Health, Misc, Music, Poem, Poems, Poetry, Random, Teen, Uncategorized, Wordpress, Writer, Writing, Writing #2

I am Wild Boy – Part 1


Forest

Forest (Photo credit: Moyan_Brenn DeLight (back again))

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.

Please Like and comment.

Part 2 of ‘I am Wild Boy’ Coming soon to www.youngadultfictionblog.com

Young Adult Fiction Blog.com

Keep your pens busy,

Regards Alex.

Enhanced by Zemanta

1 Comment

Filed under 2014, Author, Blog, Blogging, Books, Creative Writing, Entertainment, Fiction, Literacy, Literary Agent, Misc, Novel, Random, Story, Teen, Uncategorized, Writer, Writing, Writing #2, Young Adult Fiction Short Story

I’m Losing Touch with Reality – Random Photos of me


pics of me for my blog 3

I tear into this page with terror,

I penetrate my fate with a diabolical pen,

Dip into my thoughts of blood-ink forever with this feather.

I go to work and put on an act,

I hold a girl only to get her in the sack,

I hold my tongue when people talk about me behind my back,

And I’m still crazy inside.

The horror scenes from my street cornered of crimes follow me to sleep,

Will I one day wake up dead?

Steal my pen!

Trouble has a way of stalking me,

Rocking me rapidly, attacking me, grabbing me, flooring me, throwing me, burrow below me,

My writing takes over to cause a supernova,

I’m taking no more of the same boring rota,

So get ready to see what I have become so far…

pics of me for my blog 4

I’m living forever, I will die as a blogging dead writer; the haze of pipedreams will eat my illumining soul and corrupt naturally my calm nature nastily. I’m flying off the walls as this is coming off my chest, as a child I ate crayons now as an adult I am chewing on the end of my pen, not much has changed. Maybe this writing business is for me, the page is laid out before me, puke. This website is my last stand and my words are my last resort, I catch-a-phrase and head back the way. Fill these pages with shock value to fill those pockets with evil money to enrich that soul full of peace, I need a piece please. I’m losing touch with reality because I’m thinking thoughts; won’t you step into my fantasy world?

Pics of me for my blog 2

I’m done praying for archaic change,

I’m changing lanes faster than I can age in the face,

Where I’ll be in five years?

A writer if it’s my fate, if only I don’t die here.

I only have a glimmer of hope,

A pencil sharpener to butcher words as I go,

I’m simply the best character I have every wrote,

Break my soul apart and turn my words into stone.

Tribal Tattoo

Standing in front of this mirror mimicking lip-syncing death-threats to myself, I’m living in a living hell. These pages give me the key to leave hells grip on me, now I will never fail now. This blog is my playground, if you push me, I am swinging! See these words through the world of a wonder. That’s why they call me Alex Kennedy, I write venomously but if you extract the remedy, you will live to see another day. True evil has no gender, so I think I shall wear the crown.

Pics of me for my blog 1

And to all who are down here reading this, yes, all of these pictures are me. I thought it was about time I showed my face. Haha! Alex

Enhanced by Zemanta

4 Comments

Filed under Articles, Author, Blog, crazy, Creative Writing, Eminem, Fiction, Guest Posts, Interview, Life, Literacy, Literary Agent, Love, Mental Health, Misc, Poem, Poems, Poetry, Random, Rant, Relationships, Story, Tales, Teen, Uncategorized, Wordpress, Writer, Writing, Writing #2

What Type of Writer?


"Writing", 22 November 2008

“Writing”, 22 November 2008 (Photo credit: ed_needs_a_bicycle)

For my Writing Friends

I stand now; I stand a man with no future as of yet, twiddled by his past and troubled by his condition but still I stand toe to toe – nose to nose with this epic-fail named my life. Yes it may have a detrimental state on my being but in life’s chess game I can hold all of its weight because they call me Alexander the Great Writer.

I am different writer from all of you, which inevitably makes me stand away from the pack, I’m a lone wolf, you hunt your prey, I am more of a devilish creature; I wait for my food to come to me. Decipher that how you will. But I have watched and seen so many of a’writer creep up to a literary agent with a piece of work or a manuscript, shaking with so much possibility for a publication or perhaps a good phrase. But —

“Excuse me; this is my manuscript, its call Dead on The Water. It’s a psych-thriller novel. Everyone who reads it says it is awesome. Could you give it a read, please?” The writer stammers as he shudders in his boots.

“Sure thing, it will be the first thing I will do right after I do this other thing I have to do.” The clips of the high-heels simmer away through the double doors of the agency.

And what a shock! Nothing comes to pass.

But I devised a plan. One that will be more treacherous and longwinded than your way, I will write a blog! Write everything I can, whenever I can. Gain views upon my work through the blog and social networks. And in time the RIGHT-EYES will stumble upon my words. – The idea doesn’t seem that great when I write it down like that, but if I do my own thing I should get to where I am going through gaining attention. Oh yeah, for all you wannabe writers. A blog can be used as a portfolio for your work, so anyone wanting to know what you write like before contacting you, can view it, so write your best pieces. It’s a lot like putting on your party-dress and attending a ball, you want to be the best piece of polished writing-skirt at that place, so you get lucky and go home for the best damn night of your life. I think I got carried away with that part, I’m back now.

Now my talent or skill; to me it resembles a ship on the ocean, it could be calm and controlled on the water but like the weather, within an instant it can turn harsh, deadly and challenging and then there’s days of waves of poetry; but you have to look out for them.

These words I give birth to can conquer all forever, whatever the weather whether I wither or whether I turn killer and send this world into global terror, I shall. Whether I use poetic stories or general stories to get my emotion pen across, I will, by any means necessary. I may be a female pin-up centrefold and my words may be censored gold, but the reality is my reality is something I can never truly hold, my job sucks and my bed is never cold, fact.

But I write everything and when I say everything, I write everything on my mind at the time I am thinking about writing. But in a way that is educational for other writers due to my ability to play with the words. Also in diary fashion so people just wanting to pop in and check out if other people are having bad days just like them. And then you have my dark side that gravitationally yanks people in to show my mental illness and how I write about it, along with the why strapped to it and the ferocious way I chuck words around that they could never even muster to think about using.

Take away this hurt, please. It feels as if my brains will flower-blossom from beneath my skull, splitting my life into death. I am crumpled on the floor taking this beating from myself because I must; squish my eyes shut so no tears are spilt.

These med-kits have no instant direct-hit on these chugging headaches.

You see I write everything I see. I could be watching TV and everything the characters on-screen are acting I am writing EVERYTHING that I see. –

Davis stretches through the doorway, gun handle strangled, index finger at the ready to twitch. His eyes mean business with his bad acting; but the bad guy is going down. The shadow of a silhouette passes the kitchen door; Davis barely caught it in his peripheral vision.

So on and so forth. Hey, you can always watch what I was writing.

But it is a great way to further your talent. Watch something and rhyme off quickly and efficiently, so when it comes to tackling you work, it’s not only a great piece of writing it’s also a piece of pi$$ to do it.

Stay shiny!

Keep those pens busy!

Alex – The great writer, it’s got a cool ring to it.

Enhanced by Zemanta

4 Comments

Filed under Articles, Author, Blog, crazy, Creative Writing, Fairy Tales, Fiction, Guest Posts, Interview, Life, Literacy, Literary Agent, Love, Mental Health, Misc, Movie Review, Movies, Music, Novel, Poem, Poems, Poetry, Random, Rant, Relationships, Story, Tales, Teen, Uncategorized, Wordpress, Writer, Writing, Writing #2

My Evil Pen Told Me To Write This


Pen-is-Mightier-than-the-sword_4535599

Crumple up the skies and erase out the white clouds, a slight breeze will press against my skin, watch how it bubbles with the burn of righteousness. Stomp on their homes and the photo family portraits; keep their blissful memories beneath your feet, Alex.

I was born to cause havoc between the bars of these pages, does that make me a prison baby? Time to turn this pen around within my fingers, shoot for the stars in my eyes and jab because I have seen the horror of their entertainment they rub upon me. Alex, squish your dreams, blood tears will fathom under the fathoms forever, so you can shake that idea out of your pretty little head.

I am about to destroy whole civilizations with thunder and lightning with one of my brain storms; on my hands and knees I am repeatedly stabbing the ground with my pen and watching it seep ink. The pen is mightier than the sword, but its okay, I was born with two hands to carry both; Insert my evil guffaw laugh here!

joker-laughs

I have come along way from being a hobbledehoy but like every black caterpillar I transformed in a beautiful poisonous-psychotic-writer-fly. I am no longer aberrant because this is my bailiwick. I will bereave for my lost soul which rests in pieces, twitching with semi-life haunted by the decay of heebie-jeebies. My pens duty now is to immolate all that is wonderful and tranquil, where would this world be without a little anarchy?

You are no writer because you do not write for yourselves; you think of the small minded and only catch the small eyes, one day when I die, my legend will live on within my works, to slink out from the basket when the flute of darkness is played. Serpent? Yes I am.

If you would like to clash swords, I was forged in the fires of family and cuddled by the cold wind of the rough sleep of the street, pelted with pills by doctors as I sit naked in the corner holding on to dear life to the bad memories. So tell me, how would I not fit into fame? They will call me eccentric but we will hold on to the truth.

This is my quest, my journey to love hate. My curse, my job, my destiny and no one not even the almighty himself can prise me away from this. You may know words, but I see words in all, this is where the line is drawn and if you ever think to cross the line, I will take my pen from its holster and create a masterpiece that could inevitably murder your career.

I love wordplay; the play on words is my job title, I may not be entitled to make money from my writing but I know one day I will receive that knock upon my door. My eyes will darken and my soul will tweak with excitement, all alone staring at the sun, I will get closer to it than Icarus. Through any kind of darkness comes some sort of light. Bring forth my pen, Alex, it’s time to keep your pen busy.

stop-writingRemember this!

The Guardian also wrote an amazing article about creative writing, I suggest you take a look and get an insight if you are interested. http://www.theguardian.com/books/2014/mar/14/creative-writing-courses-advice-students

Enhanced by Zemanta

20 Comments

Filed under Articles, Author, Blog, Blogging, Books, Celebrity, Creative Writing, Fairy Tales, Fiction, Guest Posts, Interview, Life, Literacy, Literary Agent, Love, Mental Health, Misc, Movie Review, Movies, Music, Novel, Poem, Poems, Poetry, Random, Rant, Story, Teen, Uncategorized, Wordpress, Writer, Writing, Writing #2