Tag Archives: Mental Illness

My Chaotic Carvings


Chaotic logo

Chaotic logo (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I will no longer slave my thinking, a war upon sanity. Inflict hate when I elicit my illicit pen on all which are affectionate towards my bad black blood pump. One chance to rule this world, I am loosing myself within the moment of monumental moulded monsters I shall muster. No treatments I hand Earth, only disease ridden written miracles; I am mad for medicines. I refuse to stay sober, reuse my pain into reissuing myself another high. My instincts are primal but my guts are in knots, fight or flee?

Finally, I am taking a stand, staring at an ocean of people, a sea of waving hands greets me; I am looking upon my attackers. I was a sandwich sort of a picnic and lost myself in the woods, this is where I was hunted and haunted by these words and found this pen, just lying there, calling to me; now I unleash this pens inner anger character and release myself back into the wilds of vile.

I am dissociating myself from this plane of existence; it’s not meant for people such as me. Haven’t you ever seen a man floating from a page? Believe your eyes, I am omnipotent.

I have a heavy-duty headache, the voices want me to carve into my skull and wheedle out this worm, which sinks in its teeth into the little reality I grasp, so much so, I think I am going to die during sleepy-time. I’ve had enough; I am out of this world; point at the alien and be on your way. Systematically the darkman which lives within my mainframe flicked my self-destructive switch, so every swish is a wish or every scribble is literal, it’s quite simple, you should look past my dimples.

Kneel before my writing! I am singing to crazy, dancing frantically to the feared heartbeat you all own. Count your money, paint on your smiles; I know you are all scared of life. Panic on the streets, an army of psychopaths by my side, we’re coming for the Iron Throne. We come from the darkness to steal you light, I am my mother’s sun; she managed to raise hell in this house. My only cure now is not to dig my way out of reality but slash my way out from this page.

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Filed under Creative Writing, Literacy, Literary Agent, Mental Health, Misc, Uncategorized, Writer, Writing, Writing #2

This Pen Is a Monster; It’s The Only One That Gets me!


what-i-really-do-writer

This pen is a monster; it’s the only one that gets me!

I’m coming for it all, one last stand on every piece of paper, crumple it up and use them as bombs or make myself paper aeroplanes. Extremists, Haha! Please… I’m an extreme extremist; I eat terrorists as if they were bubble-gum, see what I did there? I just blew-up another one. Pop! I’ll be waiting here forever on these pages; a pen as my gravestone, a bunch of blunt pencils as flowers and a papier-mâché coffin.  I’m throwing sucker-punches at this page but this isn’t the bible, less holy! My life stinks, I can’t even afford to pay my water bill; I’m the stinky-kid. Help me, I’m a writer! What have I gotten myself involved in? I’m sick of this life; this must be the withdrawal from sanity. What can I do with this life except become a writer; there a light-bulb has just switched on, turn it off! This headache is getting worse. My words jump straight off the page, don’t they? Beware they could blind you.

Lit-Happens-Title

This whole big bad world has nothing on me, why do you think I peeled off my own skin? I wanted to become appealing to everyone. You cannot do what I do; you can only do what I cannot do, which is stop and fail. I’m now stabbing my eyes with my pen, so I can really see what I am writing for you. Can you see passed my words and see the light? Here, let me put this computer over your head. This is what I’m meant for; to me it’s as if I’m carving my name in cement. It’s that easy!

So throw all your pens up in the air, blacken out my Sun, no matter; I write in the darkness. Human emotion is my only kryptonite; it radiates through and clouds my vision, I just have to remember I’m not human. I live in this pen, I live in these words, now you have read me; I’m on your mind – my job is done. Don’t blame my mother; she did her best to raise Hell! From every litter you must have a runt, that’s me. I’m Mr. Brightside though; I must have rolled on my side on this hellfire. I could always count my blessings in life but I’m a writer, I don’t deal in numbers.

when you start getting resentful

I sleep with this pen every night; I think I have contracted ink-poisoning, it’s life-threatening with every word I scribble. Fame is in a frame on my mantle, I’m in love with her but she is too busy satisfying other people but I will be the love of her life, until we’re both dead! I bucking-bronco off all of my mental baggage, I’m sick of carrying all of the dirty laundry; they call me a pig-headed ass!

there is evil within us

Why are you asking me to leave? I don’t even live on this world. These aren’t words, they are only spasms I suffer with, so what exactly are you reading? That’s right, nothingness. Why are you here? You could be writing screenplays, you could be living your perfect life, you could be making money; don’t do what I’m doing, I’m doomed!

On a scale of one to five, in women’s eyes, I’m usually number 4. Why do you think I never step forward in this line up? I don’t want to be underrated. But I did it! It’s like a murder he wrote.

I burst into laughter every time I read my journal, my life is such a sick-joke it’s actually funny. I can’t talk to some people, I get more sense from talking to brick-walls, so I did that and they tried locking me up for that too.

A problem shared is a problem doubled, my words can be infectious. Does Alex live here? Sorry, his upstairs is vacant. This pen is a monster; it’s the only one that gets me. We’re all prisoners behind this mortar; I’m reaching through the brickwork to show you I’m still alive.

rejection

And as soon as my stars have aligned, you can then watch me as I shoot! Because I’ll be a Superstar.

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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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Filed under 2014, Articles, Author, Blog, Blogging, Blook, Books, crazy, Creative Writing, Entertainment, Fairy Tales, Fiction, Life, Literacy, Literary Agent, Mental Health, Misc, Novel, Story, Uncategorized, Writer, Writing, Writing #2

Trapped Within Me!


Richard Mansfield Jekyll

Richard Mansfield Jekyll (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Help me; I am trapped behind the eyes of a weak man. If I wasn’t tied up and made to witness the humiliation and beatings this body takes, I could conquer all. I am the evil you are waiting for; I am the choke of a lodged chicken bone in your throat, I have never eternally taken anyone’s breath otherwise. I am your alter-ego, a personalized Hyde and Jekyll.

I am biding time, the hope for a crossed-wire or malfunction in his control room. He is boy of the light-walkers and I am a shadow-stroller, can you see our dilemma. Now I know you are sitting there with a mopsical expression spread across your chops while reading this and that is a good thing for me, because one day I will show you something not even your mind could comprehend in any fashion. You are your own worst enemy; this is line where we part, where I push myself to my limits, you sit idly by thinking all will come to you while you sit there within your room reading this. While you are taking baby-steps I am base-jumping.

I am an extremely extraterrestrial extinguished extremist and this world is my chessboard, check-mate for this guy. One day the bars will bend and my escape will swallow his soul and drag him into the war zone I have planned, you can imagine a hell of some sort when I write these words, but where I place him in my memory and imagination as a writer, all his horrors will take pieces home with them.

This is no idiolalla, this is me in the truer of senses; his fingers are the vessels to claw myself word by word into your world, as if I were a fictional character coming to life from the page.

Pootly-nautch that’s all this is. I have seen him listen to people speak negative about him and what does he do? He shows them a smile. I have seen this so-called-man live day by day on perhaps tomorrows and others true dreams. What a fool!

Alex, you will be here forever to look through that glass, just as I sit watching, how ironic. No it wasn’t your fault for your childhood. No it wasn’t you fault when you were on our crossroads crossfire, your friends stole your money so you couldn’t buy food and let you almost starve to death and you let them back into do it again. No it’s not your fault you are weak! Why not step over to the darkside once in a while. You have all the tools you need to make this world pay. Why won’t you learn, these people leave you because deep down you cover me up and you do not wish to uncover this disaster. Ask your friends, family and ex’s. They know you have darkness, so why not show them?

I know you can hear me, Alex…. ALEX!

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Filed under 2014, Articles, Author, Blog, Blogging, Fiction, Uncategorized, Writer, Writing, Writing #2