Tag Archives: Eminem

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!

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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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What Types Of Writers Are There?


creative-writing

What Types Of Writers Are There?

Now for this writing article I know I will not be featured on Freshly Pressed nor any other family orientated weblog, I have good reason though. I have to show all if the writers out there about finding an angle for their writing and yes, this will have foul language, so if you think bad words are corruptible then I suggest you look away. If you would like to further your writing knowledge that is rather dire for you to become an awesome writer, keep reading my sane friends.

Okay in my opinion you have ‘The Gracious Writer’ and ‘The Hard-Hitting Writer’ both utterly unique and critical within the writing industry. Which one are you?

I will start off by portraying a hard-hitting writer, what they do and how they affect readers.

Now Hard-hitting writers are the ones who are not afraid of words, such as Rap artists, psychology/horror/epic/sci-fi screenwriters to the same genre of novelists and short-story writers; such as Stephen King (The legend) Eminem (My Hero!) James Cameron (Great movies, dude.) Shane Black (I love all your films) Dan Brown (The DaVinci Code was the shit!) Edgar Allen Poe (Not bad my friend, not bad.) There are some more but I would be here all day listing writers.

I will show you along-the-lines of what a hard-hitting writer does.

‘Jackson bursts through the main doors with a wamble from his shooter. The shine of hell turns furnace within his eyes. The pain from each of his family members keeps him moving forward into the path of a thousand bullets that hole him.

“Die, you motherfuckers, you deserve this and more!” He bawls from his hell to the heavens. Death does not become him as he takes on the role as his server.  The blood that seeps from him doesn’t slow Jackson down; it is his rage that keeps him marching forward.

The room floods with god-fearing men and jumping bullet casings that soon lay still beside the bodies Jackson is wafting into an endless-sleep.

All Jackson can smell is the tinge of discharged weapons and burning skin as the hot metal pierces through blood with revenge. As the last bullet is fired from Jackson piece an eerie silence of the chokes and gargles of hemorrhaging and squeaks of pain are all that warm the room.

Jackson walks over to a dying foe, uncaring and lost within his stare.

“We-We… were just …doing our job, you and your family just got in the way, man.” The death-gripped challenger falters.

“And now, I’m just doing mine. Tell the devil I’ll be seeing him soon, you piece of shit.” Jackson lifts his cannon with no life and ends his enemies.

Are you starting to see the big picture now? Two types… That’s all we have. Now a Gracious Writer is the type to be very poetic in writing, attention to deal is crucial to the whole story and above all else they are very focused on each piece of work.

Such as J.K.Rowling (Love Harry Potter) Stephanie Meyers (Edward Cullen you’re so hunky!) 50 Shades of Grey (Not for me, but women seem to like it. Plus I have done better stuff than that.) And so on….

Here you go with my take on a Gracious Writer. Tell me what you think.

Each blink is too long and each beat is too much to cage and bare, so I shall rip off my eyelids to keep you in my sight’s a little longer and tear through my chest and place myself as a sacrifice to the goddess of my inner war. My lips become unworked and dry without your pressure and I wonder and pace in circles to this addiction called you, your essence or smoke clings to my lungs, I know each inhale is deadly but the remembrance will one day be my murderer. I know you have found your feet and walked the ground you stood on but you left a blood-trail when you drove your hand through my ribs, clasped your fingers around my heart and dragged it off to the unknown, thank you.

I have tried to rip and burn the photographs of you but your witchcrafting spells are protection against your stillness towards the weak. It feels as if I am chained to a monstrous mountains peak of snow and I am kneeling at its feet, tortured to watch the skies clouds that have now been replaced with images of our better times and precious seconds. There was no Cupid with a bow and arrow only a silent thief with a dagger. No medical diagnosis or prescription to help me now, the only answer it to go cold turkey, the oldest of remedies and cures but it will surely almost destroy me as you have ripped out my insides, cooked them and now I am ready to carve. The thought of you make me throw-up, not in a sickening way to your portrait but fear, anxiety, frustration and anger, those are the invisible fingers down my throat. Thank you, Love.

So there you have it, one more step towards a Literary Agent. What do you think? Tell me.

Keep those pens busy!

Alex

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My Letter To Eminem


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My letter to Eminem

Dear Eminem/Marshall Bruce Mathers III/Slim Shady/My hero,

As people have known from my previous post that it was your music that saved me from committing suicide. (Eminem Saved My Life! Now I Write Everything. – Link is below) I am writing you this letter today, think of it as a follow-up letter than you never received when I wrote to you as a mental patient.

I love your music, man. You sifting through all of your pain and deconstructing it into rhyming form for our entertainment has captured imaginations and listener worldwide. But it has come to my attention that in the following years (Within your drug addiction.) Since Encore and Relapse that people have started to doubt not only your ability to write but also to keep up with the success from your previous albums of The Marshall Mathers LP and The Eminem Show. All I hear is…

“He doesn’t have faith within himself anymore!” Or…

“All his rhymes have become stagnant!” Or…

“Can the Real Slim Shady please sit down!” Or…

I mean I am a die-hard fan and I’m always fighting your corner because I have faith in you.

Now I have followed you since the start and as a listener and watcher (Not stalker-like) I know your technique and how you rhyme and to tell you the truth I like some of the songs from the albums you have turned your back on. I am going to tell you something that people in power forget, especially when the hit Hollywood when they come from the street. Now it is kind of innuendo so you will have to find its own meaning. (It is also pessimistic but here it is.)

When the world has hero, what do people want more than to see the hero fly? They want the hero to plummet from the sky.

Now I know firsthand about addiction to drugs (Mine were medically given.) and the struggle you must face to climb out of the abyss. And as a writer I know of the black-hole that is left within you when you no longer need those drugs and you must fill that void with words or you will relapse. I understand. But I have also studied a little psychology and because I am an avid listener to your words and beats. Now forget what people are saying they are looking for past Eminem; they have the old Eminem they are just blinded by their own hate for things.

Now as someone who is within the shade over here in this corner, bobbing his head and doing his own thing. It looks to me you are looking in all the wrong places to find what you had before.

And before I give you my “Medical opinion” I would just like to say to the persons whispering all that is wrong with you and their failing procedures to bring down a king…. Back up or you’re going to get knocked down!

My opinion!

Em! Don’t you remember that fire within your belly, huh? When you sat at home with no money, no fame and only the dream to keep you going. That was your ammo. That was your ability to dazzle all of us because you related to us and we all came together and started to realize that the pain of poverty can only be temporary if we tried and worked like you.

Now let me also add what made you different from all other rappers. All other rappers are talking about the street and big chain and getting paid but you not only rapped about the street or funny side of life, but you took on a side of rap which I like to call “Dark-rap” Where most rappers were talking about the street corner you were talking about behind closed doors and the suffering you endured. That was your niche; because we all suffer and we had someone in our corner. It was your ability to write pain from in the household that made us re-listen.

Whatever happened to that guy? That’s the part of yourself you need to re-find because rap needs you back, your fans need you and so do I!

P.S. Please DO NOT dye your hair back blonde, I like the fact you changed yourself and showed you had left all that was wrong with you behind.

Now I know I am going to get flack for writing this but someone needed to. And I also know you will never read this but hey, fame shelters you from all the crazy people and crazy writers. (People like me.)

But just remember you are a leader, you are a writer; you have conquered it all and came out fighting.

Good luck with the new album MMLP2 on November 5th 2013 …Remember – Remember the Fifth of November!

So hit me back, just to chat, sincerely yours, your biggest fan this is Stan… No wait, Alex.

Keep your pen busy, Eminem, my hero!

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My life: In The Form Of Poetry.


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E (video) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I had a weird request from an UNKNOWN messenger the other day asking how well I can rhyme now that Eminem has released his new single from his 2013 album “Survival”

My Life: In The Form Of Poetry.

I’m heat-seeking for peace,

But before you’re all seated,

Please hear my proposed proceedings.

I have a dream,

Where I leave aside of me in poetry called poverty,

In a dust cloud,

My eyes open with a creek towards reality,

I’m F*cked now,

I’m all fingers and feats when it should be tongue in cheek,

Time to make my feet run now.

Maybe I should stop,

Maybe I should quit,

Maybe I should stop taking this all out on my wrists.

Words – Words are my life,

More than yours, my passion burns thrice,

I need to pull this cord,

Before I’m pulled under this ice,

Maybe I should use force, brute or otherwise,

To get my point into the right hands, right?

Maybe I’m a dreamer, dreaming too big,

You lot are disbelievers,

Believing I’m the nuisance,

Stabbing the paper with pens, crayons and toothpicks,

With all that my skin grew thick.

Nothing you can show me, nothing in this world,

The words only matter,

Front row seats in this hell,

Trapped within this shell,

Within a link to my homepage,

I’m going places, only the remedial,

I’ll hold all your vicious faces,

At events, showcases so I’ll be seeing you!

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My Life! The Honest Writer Chronicles


its-my-life-15323

How to be an honest writer? ….Write something real!

I BET MY LIFE WILL SHOCK YOU!

I just read in a book that the best blogs that succeed are the ones that post regularly, stick to what they know and also are honest about not only their words but also their life experiences they write, so a connection is made with the reader/viewer. Well I do the other two pretty well so here goes nothing on the third.

My name is Alexander Kennedy. I am twenty-five years old and when I am not stacking shelves at a store I am writing fiction stories to not stack shelves in a store anymore. I’m originally from Scotland a very small town called Renfrewshire, which I and mother and three siblings moved from when I was seven to come to England.

I was a quiet kid, “a mommas-boy” …but I had a knack for storytelling and making up the best lies to get out of trouble because the detail in which I told was so precise, it was rather hard for anyone not to believe it, I believed them sometimes myself.

When I left school, I started a computer course to possibly get a job as web-designer (I lost my touch at writing.) When I wasn’t studying I was hanging around with the wrong crowd, getting in all sorts of trouble with other gangs and the law.

At the age of sixteen I started getting headaches, ones that made me black-out. So to the doctors I was dragged. They tested me for everything, blood-tests, brain-scans until one sceptical doctor prescribed the words “I may have a brain tumour.” I remember walking home from the doctors in silence, the stroll took forever. I just went back to where I lived by myself and sat in the dark, awake all night thinking I was going to die someday soon. Jokes on them!

A few months later I was cleared of a Brain-Tumour! YEAH!!!! And they said “This could be the onset for schizophrenia. (You can stop cheering now!) Haha!

So I became a mental patient, told to live on pills. Not very nice ones at that. I thought to myself everything was going to be fine…. ….How wrong was I?

It wasn’t soon after until the headaches started causing nose-bleeds. As the quiet one in the group, I steered away from my boys and started my own little hate workshop by myself as a recluse. The paranoia was getting to me. I pushed everyone away and in my eyes the deserved it!

I had friends but they eat my food and stole my money.

Me: “I had a Twenty-Pound-Note on the side….”

Bad-Friend: “Nope, I didn’t see anything. Are you sure it wasn’t all in your head?”

As the bad friend slides the note into his pocket.

Me: “Yeah, probably. Thanks mate.”

It wasn’t long before I was an eighteen year old man and I weighed six-stone. Not a good look for the ladies to be arm-in-arm with.

I have written another article about my life entitled “Eminem saved my life! Now I write everything.” It explains in more detail of my suicide attempt and the reason for me to start writing again.

But the words become a portal for me; a portal from all this anger I had inside. I wrote everything and I still have the five-hundred song verses I wrote in one year in my cupboard in my room.

But I started to become very weak, as in a day I was eating perhaps one sandwich. I was a female celebrity dieter.

My mother has never stepped into our business and told us how to live. But she draws the line at starvation and death. She practically told all my so-called friends to beat it. (Not in those words but within her Scottish accent.) She dragged me back home and made reassured me that I was going to get better. My mental state deteriorated and I was house-bound. My mom stayed-up most nights listening to me ramble they most crazed and warped thoughts every to come out of the mouth of an eighteen year old. While all my friends were going abroad and having unprotected sex with strangers and getting pregnant, I was rocking back and forth in the corner of my bedroom with my hands over my ears trying to block out the voices.

And here I am just over six years down the line. I have been brain clear on and off for around four years, I know I am getting better. Yes, I have put all my weight back on and have got a smoking-hot girl on my arm, well, what can I say I’m a good-lookin’ Mo-Fo! With a killer smile. Boom!

And I will continue to write everything, because everything I have been through is my ammo.

But If I die tomorrow, I would just like to say Thank you and I love you to my Mother. She has had a worse life than me and most of us out there and she still holds a smile on her face and puts other people before herself. She inspires me to become something better.

They say we all have a book within us. Mine would be a good read. I will keep it short though; I wouldn’t want to relive it all again for entertainment purposes or for another view on my blog, I am not that desperate.

I hope this short story about my life has given you a little insight about me.

Stay awesome and…..

Keep those pens busy…..

Alex.

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