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sycho_warrior
01-21-2005, 05:01 PM
I like this :) :banana: (Though I almost thought the personal poetry section was removed lol)

This is an English essay, the title, "The real me, as confided in a psychiatryst" (my spelling abilities left me there)
Comments will be appreciated.


You just don’t give up, do you? Jus so you know; I think you are an irritating, annoying you-know-what. You nag and nag that I should tell you about myself. You don’t even know why I don’t want to tell you!

Everybody always saw me as a quiet, well-behaved person. My friends saw me as someone who is always happy. They all just accepted everything at face value. They were so concerned about keeping themselves happy that they never saw when others were in need. I always had to be there for them, no matter what. No one cared about me. No one!

I lived a life of loneliness. My friends only knew me when they needed me. One day, while I was busy cutting meat, my so-called best friend phoned. When I answered, she insisted that I come to her house immediately to help her die her hair. I told her that I was busy, to which she replied “You’re my best friend aren’t you?”

Red-hot anger rose in me. Suddenly I had images of plunging the butchers knife I was holding into her stomach. Images where I cut out her heart, throwing it in her face. The sound of her voice jerked me back to reality; guilt flushed through me. That was the beginning of the end.

The hate that had festered in me for so long now came out at night. I fantasized about what I could do to all these people to whom I was an accessory. Along with this there was also a growing sense of emptiness.

As time progressed the hatred in me strengthened. The fantasies became more and more brutal. In one, I tied up my best friend; took a knife and started skinning her. There was also one where I tied her up, spilled some petrol on her and ignited it.

That day everything just went wrong. Everybody was angry with me, even though I didn’t do anything wrong. We were sitting in the English class, admiring my best friend’s butchers knife. The teacher suddenly started shouting at me. I still don’t know why.

At once my fantasies were back. In my mind I saw how I am mutilating the teacher with the knife. Stabbing her in the stomach, cutting her throat, spilling her blood.

I suddenly awoke from the fantasy. My hands were covered in blood. They told me that I murdered the teacher. Everyone abandoned me. Even the fantasies.

You see, I didn’t want to tell you about the real me, because my soul dies that day. My fantasies finally came true, but the price I had to pay was high. The real me is now simply a void.

You know, it’s my birthday today. No one remembered. I am dead to everyone. I even wrote a poem about myself.

This morning I woke up
The sun shining, the birds singing.
As I lay there, a thousand thoughts
Flashed through my mind
Seventeen years I lived on this earth,
The eighteenth starting today.
In years to come, I could become a doctor.
I could be a second Newton or Einstein,
Maybe even a second Beethoven or Mozart.
The whole day at home I was.
In the future I could be so much,
But now I am dead.
This morning I woke up,
The sun shining, the birds singing.

Jester
01-21-2005, 11:48 PM
I like your final poem but this seems to be more of a story than an essay. Many people I know feel the same way when it comes to thier freinds and obligations as a freind... The ending left me a little bit confused.