tears – Rhythm of the Ink

Oct 15, 2018Oct 30, 2020 Markey Mark Symmonds Blog, Blogger, bullying, doubt, lost, love, Mental Health, poem, Poetry, poets, tears, Uncategorized, underground, Water, words

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.

Oct 14, 2018Nov 1, 2020 Markey Mark Symmonds Blog, Blogger, bomb, cold, death, doubt, lost, love, neighbourhood, poem, Poetry, poets, tears, Uncategorized, words

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 if 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.

Oct 5, 2018 Markey Mark Symmonds 21st Century Dyslexia, anxiety, Blog, Blogger, Dyslexia, flash fiction, poem, Poetry, poets, short story, tears, Uncategorized, underground

Dyslexia 5

Brain unclouds as the mystery peeks out from beyond the dark shrouds, the hidden gem tucked deep inside, a secret hide. The end of a long ride; the turning of the tide. No longer need to hide, life taken in my stride. Embarrassment lifted, pressure shifted, memories sifted, brain explained.

Change of behaviour long ingrained, dyslexia no longer reigns. No need to explain or feel ashamed, esteem regained, demons slain, back in the game. End of the pain that made me look so lame, now pulling out into the fast lane.

Assistive devices, mentors advise, seeing me with different eyes. Electronic wizard, no more word blizzard. Understanding still demanding but life commanding.

Oct 3, 2018 Markey Mark Symmonds 21st Century Dyslexia, anxiety, Blog, Blogger, doubt, Dyslexia, lost, poem, Poetry, poets, tears, Uncategorized, words

Dyslexia 3

My Mind races in overdrive, this is when I come alive, I’m not constrained to a box. My Mind is like a wily old fox. Let my mind run riot amongst your flock smashing through the traditional rock.

Blue sky thinking, networking and linking, disorganised thinking, yet business astounds as ideas abound and turn the system upside down. Dyslexic creativity taking inspiration from all around.

Brain wired differently, memory fails on important dates, like all the dyslexic greats. Dumping words on my paper, there form absurd, twisted writing, turning, moving, correcting. Yet my words still don’t flow, missing spaces mixing cases, blind to words until they are heard.

Oct 2, 2018 Markey Mark Symmonds 21st Century Dyslexia, anxiety, Blog, Blogger, Dyslexia, lost, poem, Poetry, poets, tears, Uncategorized, words

Dyslexia 2

Red, yellow, pink, purple, green, what colour shall I have my screen? Will my words be clearer to see? Will they stop jumping and dancing for me? Will that ruler, line by line, help to read this page of mine? Will I see large gaps that I swear aren’t mine, even though I took my time?

Amazed at what I see, line by line working methodically, the same way each time. Did I really manage to write that down, staring at the page I give a frown? Missing spaces, too many places, missing words, double inserts, over and over I correct the page.

Knowing I have missed something builds my rage, I should know this at my age. Terrible writer no hope sage, defeated by ink on the page, common words hard to engage.

Oct 1, 2018 Markey Mark Symmonds 21st Century Dyslexia, anxiety, Blog, Blogger, doubt, Dyslexia, poem, Poetry, poets, tears, Uncategorized, underground, words

Dyslexia 1

Jumbled words, backwards letters, oblivious to homework setters. Sore hands straining to write, every word becomes a fight. Maximum effort, results so poor, wishing he could run out that door.

He Can’t keep up no matter how fast he goes, his speed and effort never shows. Imagination runs riot to get those words in poetry and prose.

He is Looking around, everyone has finished, his self-belief slowly diminished. Trying his best like all the rest, yet his best is not as good, he needs a rest.

His teacher says he could do better, it says so in his school report and the parent’s letter. Dyslexia running through his veins saps his energy and hides his brains, all his effort is in vain.

Sep 19, 2018 Markey Mark Symmonds Blog, Blogger, bullying, Gangs, Mental Health, poem, Poetry, poets, tears, underground, venomous

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.

Aug 23, 2018 Markey Mark Symmonds Blogger, bomb, bullying, death, guns, neighbourhood, poem, Poetry, poets, political, tears, Uncategorized, underground

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.

Nov 3, 2017 Markey Mark Symmonds flash fiction, love, poem, Poetry, short story, tears, Uncategorized

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.