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

 

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

 

 

Venomous Poet

Venom spitting poet, on paper with ink he sows it spitting, words in sheep like herds, serving aces changing faces. Firing bullets like cannon balls smashing into walls, angry sage of the modern age firing fury onto blank page.

Take no prisoners please or offend, word Smith creating fire to send, rewriting lines that twist and bend, strengthening the message they send. Melodic movements spitting ink like blades cutting an ice rink. Building the verse row by row, winding up and letting go, machine gun speed to sow the seed talking of killing, Satan and greed.

The poet slices up the verse written like a witch’s curse, voodoo doll of prose and verse, vicious words, ideas absurd, mighty ink trying to be heard. Warrior poet slaying demons, recalling of lines like a sermon. Writing poet struggling to grow, it starts to slow as ideas go, losing his flow in tales of woe. Ammunition all spent no quarter lent, message clearly sent.

© All Rights Reserved Mark Symmonds 2017

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

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

 

A Good Man

Life should be so simple for a good man, who should have lots of fans. He bothers not about convention what’s more important is his intervention. From violence and insults he chooses abstention, very rarely the centre of attention. Deep down he fights his demons, which to others he seldom mentions. For he is a man of good intentions, of many kind deeds too many to mention.

Yet when he does good and helps the neighbourhood it’s never reciprocal when he is in need and his heart starts to bleed and help he needs, he is left on his own and no one wants to know. This man, would do anything for any one, now look at how he is repaid, when he is down and glum.

He is tired and spent, fed up of being a gent of being used then abused, that’s not the spirit in which it was meant. That man who offered his all and asked nothing in return, who will never learn as he is driven by genuine concern. Look back at your memories, he will not be there, as he helped you when you were in despair, now you look past him as if he is not there, until, you need him again and more of his compassion to spare.

© All Rights Reserved Mark Symmonds 2017

 

Killing Machines

Motors quietly spring into life, propelling the killing machines like clockwork scythes, wreaking havoc and trouble and strife, knowing no value of human life. Robotic motions showing no emotion, just forward motion to the enemy they march, through water and mud and railway arches the machines come alive to dominate the world they strive.

Chopping and flailing, and shooting at will, humans cut down like butter, blood oozing through the gutter, yet not a word do they utter, not a murmur or stutter, just bodies adding to the carnage of death and clutter. Those machines of death marauding in a land of weak feeble tribes.

Metal networks of destruction; death of a race, unrelenting, uncaring, unfeeling, charge of the death machines. Hour upon hour the country they scour more bodies pile up by the hour. East to west, North to South, machines push on to continue their rout. Then, as if they had finished with the earth, they all disappear into the sea, leaving a sneak preview of what the world would soon be.

 

© 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