Sure, simply ignore the man that sits in the back of the
classroom, I have no quarrels with your choice. You will do whatever it is that
you want, regardless of how much sense I will shout out of my throat. As my larynx
starts to hurt and my vocal cords start to strain, you will still find me a
nuisance…and you will continue to throw me down. Not physically will you
assault me, but with your putridly abominable rhetoric that you claim is akin
to the voice of a god.
Your life is
one that sickens me. All that you consist of are little bits and pieces of a
life sewn from that of ten thousand others. From only the most privileged do
you try to seek parts to use for emulation. I never ask if you are so sure
about who you choose to take your character from, only because I know that you
have made the wrong decision. Poison is not meant to be drunk in mass amounts,
but a warning such as this, you have not heeded.
I laugh at
you and have no pity for you, merely because you are not worth my sympathy. You
choose the model your life after that of persons I would consider plague
infested imbeciles. But as you dance around your campfires of kerosene, I write
in my book.
When you
occasionally glance over to me and ask about what I am writing in my book, I
say that I am writing poetry. You then ask if you can read it and I reply, “It
isn’t done yet.” But I lie. In those times that you do finally notice me, that
is the time that I write about how I hate you. I try to find words that are
vile enough to describe your character, but those words don’t exist. Now, what
does that sentiment admit about your character?
And in the
times that you get trampled on by the same people you entrusted with your life,
and you ask me for sympathy, I will spit in your face. How dare you ask me for
compassion, you abhorrent, putrid, pig-faced, narcissistic, piece of cattle
s**t! You deserve to be despised.
Daniel Helle, Twenty-second of April, Two Thousand And
Eleven
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