Dark Poetry From A Twisted Mind
Suicide With Class
I dreamt of a wonderful
Journalism class
In some fictional college.
I was older than most,
As in real life.
A thirty-three-year-old
woman.
The class went
On field trips.
Had a lively teacher
Who let us discuss
Everything under
The sun.
The class was like
A big party.
Like a bunch of friends
Getting together,
Out to have fun ~
But with a common purpose:
A grade to get
For our degrees.
Happy times
Abounded.
Yet one student had
A darker side.
Suddenly
Fun & joy
Turned to complete
& total chaos.
We heard a gun fire
& saw people run.
Fear & confusion
everywhere.
People screaming,
Trying to make
Sense of something
That no one could ever
Really understand.
Tears & mass
Confusion.
One girl on the floor
In faded jeans
& a blood-stained shirt
Wet crimson ink blots
Polluted a lovely
Pastel pink.
The gun in her relaxed hand,
A look of content
On her face.
Some screams,
More confusion.
Then another
Gun sound.
By the end of the hour,
Seven bodies
Lay in a pile.
What were these people thinking?
Why end what should be
Just the beginning?
These young college students
With hopes & dreams.
Why would they choose
This room,
This class,
This happy place
To end their lives
This way?
Copyright 2005, 2018
By Insomnia
September 18, 2005
12:57 p.m.
A dream I had
~ probably inspired by my
Journalism class.
My teacher had
To resign.
Journalism class
In some fictional college.
I was older than most,
As in real life.
A thirty-three-year-old
woman.
The class went
On field trips.
Had a lively teacher
Who let us discuss
Everything under
The sun.
The class was like
A big party.
Like a bunch of friends
Getting together,
Out to have fun ~
But with a common purpose:
A grade to get
For our degrees.
Happy times
Abounded.
Yet one student had
A darker side.
Suddenly
Fun & joy
Turned to complete
& total chaos.
We heard a gun fire
& saw people run.
Fear & confusion
everywhere.
People screaming,
Trying to make
Sense of something
That no one could ever
Really understand.
Tears & mass
Confusion.
One girl on the floor
In faded jeans
& a blood-stained shirt
Wet crimson ink blots
Polluted a lovely
Pastel pink.
The gun in her relaxed hand,
A look of content
On her face.
Some screams,
More confusion.
Then another
Gun sound.
By the end of the hour,
Seven bodies
Lay in a pile.
What were these people thinking?
Why end what should be
Just the beginning?
These young college students
With hopes & dreams.
Why would they choose
This room,
This class,
This happy place
To end their lives
This way?
Copyright 2005, 2018
By Insomnia
September 18, 2005
12:57 p.m.
A dream I had
~ probably inspired by my
Journalism class.
My teacher had
To resign.
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Suicide With Class
Suicide With Class
