I'm in a dark mood today, dark stuff is appearing on the page but before you rush me off to the therapist, I only connect with murder on paper. My sympathy in the following poem is with the victim, and the people she left behind. In fact, I have no idea of who the perpetrator is -- that's probably why I don't write crime novels.
But I have a point to make. The kneejerk reaction of arresting students after handing in essays on violence is crazy. In the first play I wrote when I was 14, I killed off all but two characters (and they were robots) because I didn't know how else to end it. Hey, it worked for Shakespeare! In a later adult version, the two robots became a sexy android and she allowed one of the characters to live to be become her partner.
Teenagers write black brooding soul-tormented angst-ridden prose and poetry. It does not mean that they are going to act on these feelings or their creative urges. So guys, do some research before throwing them in the lock-up! One of them might be a budding Stephen King.
So I think my mood is because I passed a milestone today. 7 years in the one job - who would've thought it?
you on the street
difficult to recognise you
shattered fragile beauty
terror and the city
girl we've lost you