Markey Mark Symmonds Blog, Blogger, doubt, flash fiction, lost, Mental Health, poem, Poetry, short story, Uncategorized

Missing

You are missing, gone from sight, we are all worried about your plight, no trace of you, just simply disappeared, no note no reason why you are not here. Did you take flight and leave for a reason, did you think we would see it as treason? We’re you taken and driven away one day, where is the ransom note? you never took your coat. Are you wandering as a lost soul, are you in bits or is your mind whole? We have looked and appealed on TV for you to come home and live happily, but, to no avail, no happy ending to this tragic tale. Are you alive or living in a dive.

Maybe you left the country and are living pretty comfy? Maybe you are dead that’s what many have said, but I have put that thought at the back of my head, I don’t want to deal with that dread.

Did you choose to go? maybe you have plans I don’t know, maybe, you are just going with the flow somewhere that you don’t know. Days tick by very slow, weeks and months come and go, yet we still live in hope that someday you will show. I hope you turn up before we both go, it would be tragic if we didn’t know.

We hear of sightings all the time, we think we get near and you will be fine, but it turns out not to be you, just someone like the picture they drew. Alone at night in our bed we run through all the scenarios in our heads trying to work out where you might be, and why on that day you weren’t home for tea. Then comes the call we wanted to hear, yet the one we had come to fear. Your voice we wanted to hear for just over a year. The tone on the phone is not yours, it says they found you then there’s a pause. The next voice we hear is yours.

©All rights reserved Mark Symmonds 2017

Markey Mark Symmonds Blog, Blogger, death, flash fiction, lost, Mental Health, Poetry

Rita

Rita lays in bed, memories of younger days running through her head, she can’t get up, so reminisces to help the time go by, tears in her eyes as she roles back the years. She is waiting to be got up washed and dressed, Carers are late again causing her distress. Every day it is the same, on her own all night long no water no food feeling so lame. she rues the day she got old, the way she must live and she feels the cold. Carers come and knock the door, she wishes she could tell them she doesn’t need them anymore. Short of time, they can’t stay too long, with the system something must be wrong. Strip wash as quick as they can, is this how you would treat your gran. Cup of tea, no food, no time, it would be a crime. Left on her own, with pendent and phone, in four walls that she calls home.

She looks forward to the next visit, which will be soon, but, no one appears at noon, hunger pangs griping her stomach, she dares not complain, she should be grateful the morning people came. Three o’clock, they are late again sandwich and tea, she wishes they would stay, she tries a plea, they are off as soon as they came, short of staff and travelling again.

Last visit of the day, microwaved dinner on the tray, she is put to bed at eight o’clock, they can’t do it any other way, no matter how much she pays, she still must look forward to short lonely days. Night time is long, sleep is sporadic, she reflects on her life and her husband deceased who would have showered her at least. She longs to be with him, where ever he is, he’s truely missed.

Morning strikes and sunbeams drift in to the room. Carers knock at eight o’clock, they are early to put on her socks. They let themselves in and poke their head in on Rita hoping to greet her. There is no answer, they start to stare, her worn out body is in bed, but the spirit has fled, all they could do is stand and stare wishing they were not there. Rita’s soul stands in the room looking down like the moon seeing the reactions of those who care, now they have come early and she is not there.

 

©All rights reserved Mark Symmonds 2017

Markey Mark Symmonds Blog, Blogger, death, flash fiction, lost, love, poem, Poetry, political, short story, Uncategorized

Aftermath

No homes, no aid from a government decayed, food and clothes and shelter a community has paid, where was the establishment to come to their aid, to put lives back together, they lost everything they made. Ten pounds per person, the insult worsens, where is the money donated by other human persons?

A room for the night warm and safe, is that too much to ask; when if you miss a holiday flight, hotels abound; four hundred people with nowhere to live, the irony is profound. The scandal of abandonment, leave them to rot, community cohesion has decided not. Government officials make their excuses home they go to a warm bed and behave like recluses, there are no reasonable excuses.

Subclass comes to the for rocking the country to its core, too big a gap between rich and poor, all because you draw the short straw. Victorian values heaped on the poor. This should not be happening not even in war what do we pay or taxes for. Kill all the subclass make them weak, don’t give them houses they desperately seek. Rich man’s world turned upside down by a blaze in a block on the other side of town.

©All rights reserved Mark Symmonds 2017

Markey Mark Symmonds Blog, Blogger, bullying, flash fiction, lost, poem, Poetry, short story, Uncategorized

Spider’s Web

Tangled up in a spider’s web, not knowing how to break free, never knowing why me. Hating myself and feeling so weak, nobody listens when I try to speak. Assertiveness doesn’t work everyone thinks I’m just a berk. Telling me what they gonna do and expect me to say I love you. I rue the day I had to send you away but we had tried and stood by you, come what may. But being abused by you every day was something I could not cope with on any day. You pushed to the limit, no one could win it.

Memories rekindled, life running on a spindle, memories I did not want to have, you were acting like a chav, no life did we have. Pushing buttons to get the rise, you couldn’t see the pain in my eyes. You blame me for your situation, yet you never learned, we all tried to help you but discerned, as every relationship you burned.

Threats of violence persist as though you have stuck me with a knife and continue to twist. Now you hate me, yet you say you still want to see. Getting your act together, yet you never want to change. Your life went downhill, I had no magic pill, now I just had to stop you getting killed.

When you have changed and got back on track, then I will consider asking you back, but if you show me no respect then you know what to expect. For we are kin through and through and I never stopped worrying about you. Oh, how I wish we were not caught in this spider’s web.

Markey Mark Symmonds Blog, Blogger, bullying, doubt, flash fiction, lost, love, Mental Health, poem, Poetry, short story, Uncategorized

Communication Breakdown

I try to communicate with you but you just get in a rage, doesn’t matter if I try to speak or put it on a page. I talk a lot but no one ever hears, my voice only echoes back through my ears. I could shout from a mountain top, it would not leave a blot, would it really bother you? cos you don’t give a jot.

My voice echoes inside this empty vessel trying to make you hear but you may as well not be here, my voice travels nowhere near. All I want is for you to hear, to speak without fear, without ridicule and for you not to sneer. So, when the words come out all the same it’s because I’ve said them over again.

Your attention I must gain this saga is becoming in vain, to say what I want to say, nothing inside my soul but anger and dismay. My thoughts are only decay, communication is such a tough game to play, its driving me insane again and again, overloading my brain.

 

Markey Mark Symmonds Blog, Blogger, doubt, flash fiction, lost, poem, Poetry, short story, Uncategorized

Doubt

When doubt creeps in to steal the show, you feel that you really don’t know. When it stops you from moving on, sets your mind to all or none from self-belief to disbelief, the distance is only brief. The unknown thief, falls like a leaf, no motive or brief.

Wrong decisions seem harder than procrastination, but still you don’t get to your destination. Setback and derailment, other people you come to resent, pride and confidence takes more than a dent. Want to give up as you are spent but in side you don’t relent. Tough it out sulk and pout., hoping more words will fall out.

Maximum effort little return, I carry on in discern. Mulling over my decisions brain and heart in collision, shooting each other with derision. Each one wants to give up the mission. Some will say it’s weak, or that I am just meek. Reassurance and truth is all I seek. To know that truly my work is great and people really do appreciate, not feeling bad and alienate. Wish I could believe myself when I wake in the morning and say I’m great.

 

Markey Mark Symmonds army, Blog, Blogger, bomb, Boots, flash fiction, lost, love, poem, Poetry, political, short story, Uncategorized, underground

Deserted Street

Men and boys say good bye all know the reason why. Called up to serve in a war they don’t deserve on the front line, not reserves. Whole Streets fighting together as a regiment. Swathes of streets empty of men who will never return. Desolate streets no dads to greet, no sons to hug mums, just dear Johns, to all the friends you meet.

Workers side by side, they all came for the same ride, work as a team one unbreakable seam, and go down with a scream. Waste of men and boys who will never know life, but briefly met strife. No guns fired or fixed Bayonet charge, the enemy is still at large. Longing for home, their bed and clean sheets, seeing their families again and walking down those deserted streets.

In their heads, their family implanted safe return not taken for granted. Over the top their turn to drop, an entire street, downed by men from an unpronounceable town. Leaving heart ache in a deserted English Street. Mothers cry, children wonder why, when the officer drops by house after house on the same Street, tears and sadness at each one they meet, finally leaving the deserted Street.

Markey Mark Symmonds Blog, Blogger, flash fiction, lost, Mental Health, poem, Poetry, short story, Uncategorized

The Corners of my Brain

In the far corners of my mind live thoughts and feelings of many kinds, running around forming rhymes, wanting to be on time. Synapses fire signals around the wire, some inspire and some drop me in the mire, sending signals of desire and that my heart is on fire.

 Free radicals firing around the dusty corners of my mind, trying to find some place to bind and save a memory. Sometimes, there is dark matter and my brain begins to clatter. All the negative clatter, not sure what’s the matter. The dark places in the corner of my brain are where I go when I’m in emotional pain.

 In the corners of my brain is an area full of love, of doves and words that are cozy and kind and gentle. Then there are travelers, that move around and flick thoughts into my head. Sometimes absurd, they hound and pound, as they wiz around transmitting sound and messages from the ground. Yes, in the four corners of my mind there are thoughts of many kinds; long and short; good and bad and some that I ought not to have had.

 

Markey Mark Symmonds Blog, Blogger, bullying, death, flash fiction, lost, Mental Health, poem, Poetry, short story, sleep, Uncategorized, underground

Tight Space

Tied and bound in a small room tall enough to stand but not enough to turn, escape I yearn, ropes start to burn as I wriggle and twist and turn, in discern. Dark place, no space, just me and the fear of closed in space, darkness in front of my face sets my brain running a pace.  Panic sets in as I wriggle and squirm to try to get free from this room so wee. Exhaustion follows as super human effort does not succeed and my wrists start to bleed, my mind starts to plead. 

Then there is a bang a chink of light cutting the dark of night. In through the top comes a piece of meat, raw and not fit to eat. I scream, the lid slams shut, trapped in a box like a mutt. I smell the meat it’s raw, gathering dust on the floor, I start to heave with every breath I draw, desperately wanting to find a door. 

I decide not to eat, my body starts to ask for a treat, water needed but none about, I dream of a beer if I get out. My body is weak my thirst is bleak, I may not even last a week. I may be caged in body but am free in mind able to think and go into my mind. I think of nice things of better days, reciting lines from films and plays. I loose track of all the days, just sitting there staring a gaze. Flies start to swarm like gnats before the storm. Putrid food rotting on the floor, smell a fowl stench of rotting flesh and decay. I lean on the wall waiting for what’s at the end of it all, given up hope of getting away, in this box I must spend my last days. Hallucinations come and go in the dark, madness tearing me apart. My body week and breaking down thirst and dehydration come around. I close my eyes and wait for coma to descend and my body to meet this tragic end. 

Markey Mark Symmonds anxiety, Blog, Blogger, flash fiction, lost, Mental Health, poem, Poetry, short story, Uncategorized

​Pinball Day

I feel like a pin ball, bounced into an arena where there are obstacles to trip and bounce you around, pounded from pillar to post not really knowing the host. Flashing lights make it seem so bright, but, when you bounce back its far from right. For a minute you are winning and all your points start to add up, then you realise you are sold a pup, your are catapulted back up the board to where you started. 
Progress is slow, why don’t they know, when you get to the end the barriers won’t let you go cos they only throw and give you a new way to go. Then in a hole, trying to get out and even then you get ejected with naught. 

Then hit the wall and hope you fall in the right place, it’s a disgrace, concentration on their face you are just part of the rat race, never able to play an ace. Points racking up stroke of luck gets you out of the muck, then straight down the middle into a hole to be catapulted straight back out, with a clout, you want to shout, to do it all over again. It’s always the same totally insane.