Confession Tuesday

1. Last week I pretended to be sick on multiple occasions to skip class. :(
2. I've spent at least three times more time on Skype talking than doing homework.
3. I sleep half the hours I should.
4. I have on multiple occasions moved into a corner where I can steal the neighbours connection after my father turns off our internet.
5. I've walked downstairs on weekends, picked up my heavy duty slingshot, and seriously considered killing the same dogs who wake me up every Saturday.
6. I hate most sweets, I will only eat chocolate(no white chocolate, blergh) and gum.
7. I always pretend to be busy, gone, asleep or angry just so I won't have to speak with people who irritate me.
8.Yeah, you irritate me.
9. I've repeatedly watched a Youtube video over and over again for over 2 hours, don't judge me.
10. I wish my friends would stop writing about Skype, it's boring.

I Don't Complain

I sit here,
I hate it,
this office.
It's not the place itself,
I mean, it looks disgusting,
but it's not the place.

Sweat runs down my neck,
Sweat in an air conditioned room,
Basketball uniform in a tidy place,
I sit,
Still taller
Still taller than some of the people walking by

None of them,
None of them who I need,
To get the hell out of here.

From The Vulture's Eye.

I sit still, it's the eighth day now, the eighth day that he has been trying to deceive me. I know not why, but I surmised that he was after me, despite his friendly attitude during the day time, something was wrong. Now I know.

I do not know what bothered him, I had been friendly, I had simulated a resort even, making him feel at home. I am not a sound sleeper, when he had shone the light on my eye, the eye that he seems to despise, I could tell. Dehydration might be what is driving him, this far west, but I had corroborated that he was mad long ago. His endeavor in life was to kill me, I knew that now, and I knew that if I screamed, if I yelled, that figure clad in black at my door would pounce.

He is not cursory in his manner of murder, I have sat here for long. Yet, I have derived that tonight would be the night; I should have called the police, I could of. I grimaced as light shone into my eye, and I gingerly moved for my baseball bat lying far across the room. Too far, damn. I make an inventory in my mind of things I could use to protect myself, or better, kill him. Yet, I find nothing. Please god, let the neighbours see the light. Suddenly his bloods shot eyes tighten, and he jumps toward me. I use the least amount of breath I possibly can to shriek, to try to warn the neighbours, for the police to come.

I have lived my life, but I can't let this madman live his. I punch and scratch and bite and there are abrasions all over him, yet he won't give up. I need to let the police find him, for I can already feel the end coming. He hits me and I land face down on the ground, the pain electrifies me. I feel one of my last teeth come loose, not dead yet though, not yet. Now I roll over, just in time to see my bed come down towards me, to put me to sleep one last time. There are colors, noises, and images flooding my head, final dreams flying past.

And then… there are none.

*This short story is related to Edgar Allan Poe's "Tell-Tale Heart"

No, I Am not Intrested in your Youtube Video.

I'm good at it,making belief, failing to listen.
Pretending I am actually listening in class,
Pretending I can't find my reading log,
Pretending I actually care when one of my friends is talking to me about something that has nothing to do with me
Pretending I am paying any attention to advice.
Pretending I believe what people are talking about.

Yet when I want to talk to someone, I will.
I will go on and on and on.
Keep on talking until they
are either overwhelmed with words
Or bored to death.
Or they themselves,
Pretend they care.

Trust me,
When I want to talk to someone,
I will, and I will do it well to.
And sometimes when it seems
I am ignoring you
I am busy,
I'm sorry.
And when "Nick is gone"
Nick is ignoring you.
Remember that.

This Year

This Year:

The names that flicker across my screen confuse me, For they are of friends long gone The friends which I cannot remember. My memories are blurred and destroyed, as for the images contain,
They are as fragmented as my laptop screen.
This year I hope to remember, I hope to fix what was broken
This year I hope for people not to notice I am pretending to remember them.

The binder explodes, papers scurry across the floor
Escaping the hell they live in.
My room is a battlefield, the binder's blood is splattered over the floor,
Yet I cannot will myself to care.
This year I hope for organization.

The papers lie there, dead,
Victims of procrastination
My delight and my demise.
This year I hope to be free of stress,
And have my work done on time.

The wireless is off,
Dead, dark, nothing,
The night has no meaning,At least not any more.
Yet, as my internet spikes
From my neighbour's connection.
I know I will stay longer.
I know I will stay too long.
This year, I hope to be responsible
enough to just fall asleep.

Nicholas Brands Smit