The Poet: Chapter One

Another lonely night at this place I called a home. No one was home except me, which had its advantages and disadvantages. The only other living thing in my house was my dog, and he was sleeping on the couch downstairs. I opened up the blinds of my window and looked at what was another snowy night. The chances of school being held tomorrow were slim to none. My parents were at a bar, not getting drunk, but watching the race with some friends. Friends, one of the many things i didnt have. I actually have a list in a box under my bed, for I didnt want anyone to see them.

I pulled the list out from under my bed, showing just how bored I was. It was on a crumbled piece of paper, which was crumbled because of the stress I had writing everything down that terrible night. But I dont really want to talk about that now, not for what I was about to do. I closed the blinds and sat down on my bed. Clothes and bottles of water were on it, I didnt care much for cleaning, and it wouldnt matter. And there was one notebook, and there was writing on it, personal stuff that I want only my family to know. I glanced at the note, for what might have been the last time. Then, from under a towel on the bed, i pulled out my dads 12 gauge shotgun. I cocked and held it to my mouth, shaking with nervousness, and i shed one tear. And....

I set it down. Crying, I reached for the notebook and ripped out the page. It was my suicide note. I ripped it to pieces and threw it away. Still crying, I wrote more on another piece of paper. Verse after verse I wrote. Until finally, I had yet another poem. I set it in the pile like the rest of them and put the notebook in the box and put it under the bed. I am depressed, I am a coward, I am a failure, I am The Poet...