Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Swanscombe Used To Be Such A Nice Little Town

Helicopters hang over my house,

most nights,

sweet symphony of sirens,

the violin solo of violence.

Somebody will awake to bad news.

A boy was stabbed last night.

The neighbours are all whispering,

about how the streets don’t feel safe,

the value of their houses,

even less so.

A boy was stabbed last night,

but it wasn’t their boy,

so they talk of house prices,

vandalism at the park.

He was alone,

but they never wonder why.

He must have been a bad kid,

not like their kids,

some kids are born bad kids,

raised by the streets kids,

a bit too rough kids,

must have come from London kids,

not allowed to play with their kids.

A boy was stabbed last night.

tonight,

the helicopters hover again,

the symphony begins,

a mother wails a haunting solo,

from her front door.

The curtain twitchers have front row seats.

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