Jack Kirwood
Bio
Is freedom?
Reality meeting itself on its own terms, seeing through the looking glass, mirroring itself.
Absurdity, realism, wondrously weird and INSANE.
This is what you'll find,
Read bottom up.
Stories (13/0)
Why I wright? Because it is right.
Writing is an art form; full of expression, admiration, passion, and creative perplexities. To express oneself I wish to delve into the realm of realism, relatability and awe. Allow me to fill your mind with tales of my experiences which haunt, enlighten and intrigue. The purpose of my writing is to teach my morals and allow someone to think before acting, whether it be about homelessness, suicidal ideation, depression or abuse. My writing will always have a personal message in which the audience will be able to relate. I wish for my writing to inspire and give hope. Writing is my passion, people listen as it is personal; from experience; from the heart, mind and soul. I release my emotions onto the page so others can heal and relate, to know they're not alone in this bittersweet reality. My writing gives me fulfilment as it releases and evokes emotions. It is my coping mechanism, some have cars, lovers, narcotics, video games, masturbation, television etcetera. I have my writing. In a perfect world to monetise and fund my writing will be a dream come true and to all the followers will have free, instant access. For those who wish to collaborate my eyes, ears and heart will always be open and willing to help. My writing is typically in the style of poetry as the flow is pleasant on the ears and eyes. My writing has turned many heads, from those who are haters of poetry to lovers of the art. The following is a short monologue I wrote about homelessness. It is one of many issues I wish to address through my writing. Although I have never been homeless I sympathise and empathise immensely. I hope you enjoy the following and will consider funding my work.
By Jack Kirwood3 years ago in Confessions
The Blinding Bright Light
I awake from my slumber numbers of sleep count three. Woken every 15 minutes with a blinding white light that burns bright right into the eyes many time before and after midnight. Alas breakfast is served. Starving from medication because of hallucinations, I take my seat with much hesitation. I feel like I am suffocating for around me are the mentally insane in pain. As the walls are steel and white, not a speck of colour except the blood from sutures, from those who thought they had no futures. Temperature rating of sixteen degrees C. all do not feel free. Involuntary treatment order restricts them from seeing the sea.
By Jack Kirwood3 years ago in Poets
One of Them
Warning this is a saddening monologue about homelessness. Viewer discretion is advised. Xavier is on the sidewalk with needles and litter surrounding him, he is holding a sign that says, “Please help.” He has a bandage on his hand. The sign is clearly written in his own blood. He is extremely dehydrated, pale and starving.
By Jack Kirwood3 years ago in Psyche
