I have been told that I am a dark person—that my sense of humor is morbid and macabre. I can also be somewhat inappropriate; and, on occasion, just plain rude and mean without realizing. My mouth says what it wants, without considering the repercussions of its actions. My birthright.
Now, me as a writer is not much different, minus the rude. Much of my writing focuses on characters losing touch with reality, murder, death, and just the unhappy aspects of living. One of the first stories I ever wrote involved a husband murdering his wife to create the philosopher’s stone (an alchemy thing). I hadn’t intended on the story progressing that way, it just happened. The majority of my writing turns out in a similar manner, for whatever reason.
Turns out, I’ve been this way since I was a child.
No, I didn’t write when I was younger. I didn’t read, either. All my writing and reading experiences from elementary through high school consisted of the minimal work necessary to pass my classes. That was it.
A few months ago I discovered two pieces of writing from seventh grade:
I then learned after reading there that my . . . odd perspective on life is not an adult evolution, but some genetic anomaly ingrained since birth.
For the sake of concision, I’m not putting up every poem from these two collections, there are just too many terrible terrible terrible poems, like my acrostic poem for Matt:
That’s not even a poem. I don’t know what that is.
Also to note, the only poetry I read as a child was by Shel Silverstein. So there’s that.
if you can’t read the poem in the picture, I’ve typed it out following each picture)
There was a creature named Bobby,
he liked to eat frogys,
he eats them up,
all like a pup,
and that's a creature hobby.
Dragons fly through the air,
going place to place.
Spurting out fireballs,
always in your face.
When they're going by like Dragonflies,
they won't hit you in the face.
Shouting out their fireballs,
they'll tare down the whole place.
I was walking through the house,
I heard a mouse, and the came running
after. I grabbed the cat, gave it a wack,
and he ran to the door.
There was a little monster
his name was Fred Onster
he scares you away,
in some hay,
and that's [why] he is a monster.
It's creeping up into the day
killing it all the way
and the night comes to stay.
Do you ever think as the day goes by,
that you may be the next to die?
You could [be] hit by a car,
or smashed with a bar.
So could you be the next to die?
You're in the middle of a town,
far into the future. Cars glide on air
like planes in flight. Buildings tower overhead
with big holographic signs on top for all
to see. People don't look the same with different
styles of clothes and shoes. Above, planes
go faster than imaginable, skateboards and rollerblades
are replaced with hoverboards and rocketblades.
Home has finger scan plates on door[s] to prevent
robbery. Behind this wonderful places is a wat.
Lasers, planes, missiles, and explosions light the hill.
Isn't so pleasant, is it?
Gasp of thankfulness
his father was still unharmed.
Emory sitting in a chair,
facing two strangers
pointing their guns at his chest.
Jeff's mother pleading them not to
I saw boredom clearly,
She was slender and unrested.
She turned and slowly walked toward me.
I saw her white skin and bloodshot eyes
And heard her mumble to her self
And I felt sorry.
There was a guy named Ed.
His best friend was Fred.
they liked to go sledding on
cold winter days,
flying [off] jumps in all of the ways.
Doing flips, twirls, spins, and other
things like them,
flying high and low.
LOOK OUT FRED!
LOOK OUT BELOW!
Poor little fred,
he should have looked,
poor little Fred,
he got hit and booked.