Serial Killer

In the shadows of the night, hidden from the moon light by the dark, stands a man cloaked in black. His blade sends a glint of light as the beams from the moon bounce back. This man of darkness is not here to fight.

Dark destroyer, killer in the street, not the kind of guy you want to meet. Yet dark is the alley where he strikes the blow and crimson life does flow. This man you never know. Never seeing his eyes, he attacks from behind. Leaving you oozing in blood and mud and street crud. Life ebbing out of your body and clouding your mind.

Into the night the stranger goes, where he is, no one knows, he could be your friend or just your foe. laying there dying in the street, a passer-by crying at your feet. Wondering how many other victims he will cheat and carve them up like pieces of meat.

Months pass and there are no leads to the man who makes innocents bleed, then, from the shadows he strikes again another victim savagely slain, blood spreading across the ground washed to the drain with the rain, soaking the ground.

Serial killer again and again no motive nothing to gain. He kills again and again, communities terrified they will end up the same. Streets deserted no children playing games. He lurks in alleys out of sight waiting and watching people pass in the night stalking his next victim then fading into the night.

© All rights reserved Mark Symmonds 2018

They Know You Know

They know, yes, they do, they know just how to get to you. They know how far you will go and that you won’t say no. They know, you won’t tell, they know you won’t make their life hell.

They know how to hurt and to cut and they know you are in a rut. They know who to pick on, and who will let it carry on. They know they will get away day after day and they know it won’t matter what you say, you’re the one who will pay.

They know their confidence will grow and they know they never reap what they sow. They know that you have died inside but they bring their mates for the ride. They know you want to hide, that you are weak because you cried. They know, you know.

© All rights reserved Mark Symmonds 2018

 

Mac 10

Spray and pray the gangster way, the little boys play, making their way owning the day. Settling arguments, making them pay, violence and revenge, Mac 10 takes the day. Deadly spray, hope and pray, life ebbs away.

Black clad, bandana, bad cussing and fussing street talk, killing on the sidewalk, Mac 10 trying to make them men. Hip hop and rap, street culture and crack. Mac 10 to end the deal rat a tat tat bullets spat everywhere.

No one was there, turn a blind eye letting kids die and mothers cry for ones who lie. Don’t break the code the silence mode mac 10 will keep you quiet. Death and fear the daily diet, wheeling and dealing, robbing and stealing. Life freewheeling, fast cars failed three R’s crime pays dangerous days. Mac 10 to graves it lays shortened lives in shallow graves.

© All Rights Reserved Mark Symmonds 2017

View from the Shadows

In the lonely shadows I hide, watching two worlds collide, scared to venture outside. I live with pride, that I am not part of what’s going on outside, part of the animalistic joyride, of sheep that swim with the tide. I’m happy in this lonely place where I hide.

Some nights I have cried and to find a reason I have tried, but no reasons come to mind, why people should hurt fellow man kind. The actions of hate are just outside my gate, no sign it will dissipate. People shouting cussing each other and their mother, no respect for each other nor religion or colour.

I look from my hide out, from my long lonely shadows, safe behind strong doors and windows. Watching the animals to and fro as the battle scars sows, where it ends, who wins, no one knows, just hatred row on row. Tear gas and burning cars, sticks and stones, co-ordinated on mobile phones. I still hide, all alone, watching the hatred roll down the road until it is back out of site mistakenly thinking that’s the end of the fight.

© All Rights Reserved Mark Symmonds 2017

 

Wishing I Was You

Quietly watching, seeing your every move, feeling every word, hanging it on a memory peg, taking in all that’s around, the ridiculous and the profound. I’m there, right by you, but you don’t register me, why should you, as you can’t see. I move away to the other side, where I feel comfortable and safe, where I can watch you from a distance, like a starving waif.

I wait for you to notice me, for your mind to turn on me, waiting for the ball in my face or the stupid comment you must make, for all you mates’ sake. I have been watching you, I see you every day and admire all the things you do, I wish I was that way.

Everyone laughs and likes what you say; you always seem good at everything and get your own way. You have the best of everything; you seem to not try too hard, all your mates think you are a bit of a card. When I’m not watching you, I’m thinking of the way you are without an emotional scar, I work so hard, I tire of the day, all the time I know being like you there is no way. I can try to be like you but friends push me away, and take the rise out of everything I say. I work so hard to be the best but don’t come close to you or all the rest. I’m tired of trying to be you, I’m running out of zest just trying to do my best.

So, I sit and watch you in everything you do, hoping that one day I might find the secret from you, there must be something I’m doing wrong, something I should know, but no one seems to tell me they just come and go. So, when you see me watching you, remember, it’s your grace; the way you carry yourself; the fast running pace; that is what I’m interested in, that’s why I dare show my face. For just one day of being you I wish I could have a taste.

©All rights reserved Mark Symmonds 2017

Retribution

Insecure angry man, controller, punisher chastiser. Head worker action skiver. Putting you down, you can’t do right, shouting out of spite, bruises and broken bones, checking of mobile phones. Telling you what to wear, who you can go with, what time and where. If your late back you will get a whack.

Push you to the floor hand shut in the door, why do you take anymore? Backed in a corner cowering low on the floor waiting for the next blow. The pain shoots through your stomach, fear coursing through your veins, as you double up waiting for more violence to rain, hoping your life doesn’t drain.

Excuses and lies, shades cover bruised eyes, he has come back to apologise giving a flash of puppy dog eyes. Talk and talk he even cries crocodile tears to a lay your fears. Back again you let him come, you still love this son of a gun. All is calm sweetness and like, then he changes, controlling once again, you let it go as you don’t want the strain, deep down you know what will happen again.

Blue lights come to take you away, string to the end now he must pay. He’s dead on the floor inside the door, battering and bruising he can do it no more. For your trouble, you fall foul of the law, for killing a man who treated you worse than a whore, can’t they see it’s not murder it’s settling the score.

© All rights reserved Mark Symmonds 2017

The Spy that Loved Me

Follow me down to the wire where I am, what I do, you always enquire, of your checking I tire, trapped in the circle like a funeral Pyre. I wish you would go and let me be free instead you are constantly monitoring me. I once let my emotions run free but never thought you would bring me to my knees.

The shouting and scowling and balling us out, safe in the knowledge we won’t walk out, and if we do you will protest your love and claim you will meet him above. All I ask for is to be loved. To be trusted to stay true, can’t you see I only loved you? now I’m not sure whether that’s even true. I want to be free to just be me, it’s not about who I’m going to see it’s all about you stifling me.

So, pull up your anger and soften your voice, come here and love me it’s really your choice, listen to my heart and hear my voice before you leave me with no choice. I’m not scared of being alone of having my freedom in my own home. Of thinking and feeling and being whole once again not having to play these stupid games.

© All rights reserved Mark Symmonds 2017