Let Me Cry

Let me cry until I die, down in the gutter or flying high, let me cry. Let me be angry and hostile and cold, no matter what you have been told, let me cry.

When I cry, please don’t sigh don’t join in, you have no reason to cry. Let me be the real me, but most of all, let me cry. Give me a tissue to dry my eyes, put your arms around me as I fall from the sky, but most of all, let me cry.

You don’t have to understand why or know how I feel inside, just let me cry. You don’t have to act like a spy, trying to find clues to why, just let me cry. If your shame and embarrassment get in your way and you feel you must run away, then thats ok! just let me cry.

Would You ?

When you hear that mother cry, would you stop and find out why? Or would you just walk on by? When that man in the doorway is high, would you bother or carry on by? When that man needs food for the day and has nowhere but the street to lay, would you stay and pass the time of day? Would you turn the other way?

When a heart is breaking would you bother about the making? Would you walk by and leave a child to die and not hear their desperate cries without shedding a tear from your eye? When bombs hit far-off lands, do you try to wash your hands and hope you never go anywhere near those desert sands? When the rains don’t come upon another man’s plains, is all you can do is say he is to blame?

Would you love and cry and hold a man’s hand as he dies, or would you leave him to die alone. In whose name do you walk by too scared to even try? Is it that you don’t really care so long as you are still there? What it was you, would you expect helpers all in a queue? Would you cope with being alone no friends no family no one at home? If you stand on top of that building, waiting to jump, would you hope someone will ask you why or would you expect them to just walk by.

Touch Me

Slowly touch me, caress my body with your fingers, let this tingling feeling linger. Let this feeling resonate like the voice of a singer. Feel me shudder as sweet words I utter and free my mind from daily clutter. Just concentrating on where you choose to wallow, savouring each and every hollow.

Calming my spirit, my racing heart, that sensation I love right from the start. You move in patterns as though it is some kind of art, this feeling is tearing me apart. I want to touch you caress and hold you, but I never want this feeling to depart. So, I lay there just admiring the painter applying her art.

Then comes the climax there is no holding back as you find the erogenous pathway and I struggle to hold my emotions at bay. Until finally I must let go, to show you what you have done, the final rush of feeling, the moan, the sigh as I realise that the end of this feeling is nigh.

© All rights reserved Mark Symmonds 2018

 

 

American Dream, Iowa Queen

I dream of holding you tight, of taking a dream flight to an Iowa girl who waits for me every night, even though I’m thousands of miles out of sight. Oh, my American dream Atlantic charm radiant beam. How we long to embrace across the ocean face to face.

But, we both remain in different places, separated by vast space, yet we speak every day, we find a way and it hurts when we must go away. Our times are different in the day. You believe in angels and pray that I will come to you someday. I disbelieve but for you I arrive and wish I was by your side.

American dream of walking by the stream hand in hand as sun beams. Of laying my head on a distant shore and knowing that I am all yours. Alas this dream is worth fighting for to see your face when you answer that knock at the door. My American dream, Iowa queen.

© All Rights Reserved Mark Symmonds 2017

 

Satin and White Lace

A collaboration between Mark Symmonds  and Debra Sasak Ross

Through satin and white lace.
I can still see your face.
Your features I can trace.
No one could ever take your place.

My heart starts to race
As our passion quickens pace.
My hands pull at your lace.
To reveal the satin of your face.

Debra Sasak Ross-MarkSymmonds (c) 11/07/2017 All Rights Reserved

Pillow

Scarlet lipstick and black liner leave their stain on the pillow of pain, that has seen the world through the eyes of its owner, the damp stained case trimmed with lace, soft comfort for salty teared face, pushed deep in, to muffle the cries, hugged tight in arms of trembling night. Holding the pillow to smother the sight of make up running like a zombie in a fight.

Yet that pillow no secrets it tells, no matter how much she swells, just hints at the turmoil within her head, where she lay down and her tears spread. Flowing locks on soft silent rock, absorber of the shock.

Curled in a ball on bed covers she sprawls unleashing the pain as tear drops fall. Absorbing the lies and the hate and the hurt, of men that just see her as a bit of skirt, the pillow stays loyal no matter how much she soils. Never runs from her in her hour of need never answers back or states it’s needs. Yet, her fears it surely reads, confidante of soft scented joy. She pummels and abuses but never destroys. The pillow of choice she laid her head on to go to sleep and get over that boy.

© All Rights Reserved Mark Symmonds 2017

 

Heaven

Angels floating on clouds, rescuing the dead from their shrouds leaving the bad to the Satan clan, angels take the sole of good men. They soar to the sky with the big wing span, a succession of souls from women children and men. Skyward, they fly through invisible sky to the utopia on high.

Then, the pearly gates emerge, their purity in the sun glistens and all the souls listen to hear the name of their loved one. Families reunited, spirits get excited, to see them again. Now they are all angels in a heaven so calm, where nothing is bad and no need to be alarmed.

Before Saint Peter, they are judged, all their life and every grudge. What have they done that is good? did they help someone when they could? Will he change his mind and chuck them out and send them down to eternal hell? can they think of a reason why he should?

Then, comes the judgement, the bad outweighed by the good and suddenly they’re in God’s neighbourhood. Will they see the great principal himself or will he be around, but cloaked in stealth? Who will they know? where can they go? can they just sit there and grow? For they have been chosen to sit with the spirits and watch the world as though they are in it.

© All Rights Reserved Mark Symmonds 2017