Tag Archives: Word

Medicine Time!! My World is Sick


Life forwardThe walls are closing in on me, time to expand my mind again; my last defence against the grim pace of life. I have finally put the knife down and picked up a pen and a handful of pills, cracking open my skull and throwing my brains at the paper, so this world can call my writings masterpieces. This master of writing is laid in pieces, broken and sobbing naked in the corners of the living-room, hiding from the knocks of the door, rocking backing forth.

martin

I can be a pain killer,

Now watch me grill-up these chickens,

Wherever I be, weed suspicions be in us,

It’s a lot me similar to David and Goliath proportions,

Saving Private Problems,

Raging rhyming destroyer,

Wait until I get hold of,

All this weight I hold on my shoulders,

My soul dominates these golden-gates,

So…. Game over!

Courage and Knowledge mix with hate is a bonus,

Anticipate for another brain donor,

I should just escape to my other persona,

Cause I do love no one,

The world is sick,

Time to give it its medication,

Red ribbon wrapped with exhilaration,

Reward myself, a pill I page in,

Suppose to look after this commonwealth,

And still I am a patient.

Stick to what you know, so I am glued to this pen and paper and surrounded myself with memory photos of pain. I am not sure if these feverish tablets are making me sweat, or if I am crying; still not sure.  Tomorrow I will be less of the same man! I can’t handle the wobble of sanity, my fingertips grip on the verge; I will plummet into insanity with my arms wide open and be engulfed into the darkness. Here we go again!

dansh-raza-triumph-of-evil-2011-pen-and-digital-print-on-paper-11in-x-8-5in

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Filed under 2013, Articles, Author, Blog, Interview, Life, Literacy, Mental Health, Misc, Random, Writer, Writing, Writing #2

I Can’t Stop Writing!


Why-are-writers-crazy

I’m beautifully damaged and camouflaged behind the words I write down, a hunter ready to strike for your eyes, voice and heart. A personal quiet riot! A waft from the page, can you smell that? That’s not my body odour; it would be my soul I just sold, on fire! I’m tortured in life; my demons have keys for all my doors I close and barricade. I’m hurt; I’m holding bloody-hands out for you to pick me up, I’m pulling for you to see what I see, maybe you can see words are my own way out from this cesspool hell hole.

crazy-writer-graffiti

I’m not writing for money; I would be happy to write something for my next meal or something resemblance to a second of happiness. You want words? I’ll give you some! When I threap this quill, I know my stories are ephemeral because my life is mirrored to yours as imbroglio; I know when I began incipiently and I never became inure. The darkness made the words almost labyrinthine mixed with crazy, my work became panoply. I ravish each sentence, I ravel up each paragraph. Some days I wish I would become nefarious and I will use all I know, forever, grandiloquently.

And I didn’t even go to University or College!

These words haunt me; I’ve never seen or dreamed these figments before, where did they come from? I know I must write them; possessed by the legendary writing masters from the past, Poe, Shakespeare, Tolkien and Tu’pac. I’m not even here, don’t mind me crouched in the corner naked and filthy, shocking shaking while laughing at what my hands can do. These tears keep me from falling further into that hole, cupping out my hands to carry them into the land of the living. Yes, I have some baggage.

I want to scream sometimes but all I can muster-up is exclamation marks!!!! I need a way out, it’s either get rich or die trying. I pick the foremost. I’m suffocating here; I need to catch a break for breath. I want my words to transport me to another world. If I’m not brushing off Cop-Stares, I’m jumping over and through bushes to escape Monsters. Letting creative juices flow when I bang my forehead on my desk, I’ll concuss my way through these writings.

i would rather be writing

We all adapt to the pains of life, I’m soaking wet with gasoline, I need a way out; I’m searching for a light. I’m only powering-up to be a standing joke, direct your attention this way, please! I’m skating acclivity. The dog circles around me, until it sits at my feet; it drags it sight to the sky. The dog’s head falls off and a fountain of blood spurts over me. I’m covered in sweat; these night terrors need to stop, in my waking life I’m living in, I’m feral because it.

Does this pen even exist on my realm? It does, it must; I’m the one who doesn’t subsist. I scratch my madness on the walls with my fingernails, this page is my blackboard. First I must beat life before I beat my work; the bullies in school have already had playtime on my face. I’m throwing my hands in the air for surrender and praise to this hurt. Bring on the pain.

writers-are-crazy-pink

This is the last straw; finding my work online is the same as finding a needle in a haystack. I’m exploding above this world because my fire-works. Boom! I just see thing differently; hands coming from the floor, clouds are spaceships for ghosts; this page is trying to steal my thoughts. I am my own literary agent! I’m my own pimp; all I have to do is open up for my punters.

I’m writing for life, I have to write in my own heartbeats. Oblivion is my only option, beyond that I’ll have writers block.  Never say never!

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Filed under Articles, Author, Blog, Blogging, Life, Literacy, Literary Agent, Mental Health, Misc, 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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Filed under Scribbling Insanity, Writing

A Monster of a Writer


leave this book alone

A Monster of a Writer

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.

Keep going, Alex. Keep going! Show them all what you can do with words, out write them all, have them think twice about you!

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.

monster writer

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?

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Filed under Blog, Fairy Tales, Fiction, Life, Literacy, Mental Health, Misc, Poems, Story, Tales, 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.

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