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#snatched
I have a voice Or should I say, i 'had' a voice I lost it somewhere on the way. This hurts cause I lost it but I can still speak. They all stole it from me, The girl I had been, That loved to speak, They took her away. At them, she threw her innocent words, The words thay said, left small cuts, Everytime she shut herself a bit more, When she realise that no one is listening to her.
0
Oct 4, 2025
Oct 4, 2025 at 12:58 PM UTC
MUTE(They stole my voice)
in the city for a few days, the madness even intensified, as the United Nations privileged, dine, wine and pontificate their global prejudices, and review their fav expensed account, French restaurant's contribution to global relations warming so the inveterate veterans of this congestion+++, take to sidewalks with gusto, for motorized transport is suboptimal, and its hot 'n sticky, humid and putrid as garbage collection gets suspended.... which leads to my bonus source of inspiration, walking among the pro's I hear, cannot help but overhear, for din of shouting is de rigeur, snatches of sidewalk intimacies. which cannot go unheard! and must be taken as given kid, kid you not, what you may overhear is plots of lover revenge, deathbed confessions, why she is sleepingwith her boyfriends brother, (better lover) but the brother, the older, better jobber, has the oolala moola-la! here, is where, I tell you, that ****** these tidbits from their lips, and weave and spun for the fun, into a tapestry Whitman worthy, he too walked the broadways, the loading docks, admired the feathered peacocks of Fifth Ave., turning it into great poetry but a single line of dialogue rings loudest in my memory, it was a silence that suspended the grime and rhyme of all the surrounding noisy distractions, when she hears the man, say matter of factly, the second opinion confirmed the diagnosis, and yes, the cancer had spread, and options now, very limited... the woman. stumbles a step, and says nothing, but grasps his upper arm, slow soft, bring ing up higher and higher, till it almost impedes the man stride, and he looks upon her face with kind eyes, and winces~grimaces~as sympathetic as possible a wispy smile, for he is acknowledging that she, will bear the brunt, the in coming cold front, while he rides the storm, for as long as itis permitted… though the streets are crowded, I believe I am the-only one, proximate enough, to be the sole witness of said tapestry's exchange, and I am, blooded, chest concaving, my temples beat a throbbing beating, and the swirl, of ebb and flow of pedestrian's goings, separate me from them, as they plunge ahead, but the've turn left, and all I see as they dream away from-me, is the-arm, her arm,, squeezing his, as if that lock, could somehow prevent a storm, hurricane, tornado, the tidal wave that is now engulfing them…and then the gone… and I am left bereft, for there is no poetry to quote, must go un spoke, and crawl to a vest pocket garden bench, slumped and stumped this thing why me, was I the one chosen for this knowing, and the answer comes quick, this a warning reminder, to find her, woman, mine, and clutch her arm-too tight, and utter words to her nonsensical, but that comfort me, in an inexplicable wordless way
0
Sep 25, 2025
Sep 25, 2025 at 4:58 PM UTC
The Snatch(ed) Conversation
in the city for a few days, the madness even intensified, as the United Nations privileged, dine, wine and pontificate their global prejudices, and review their fav expensed account, French restaurant's contribution to global relations warming so the inveterate veterans of this congestion+++, take to sidewalks with gusto, for motorized transport is suboptimal, and its hot 'n sticky, humid and putrid as garbage collection gets suspended.... which leads to my bonus source of inspiration, walking among the pro's I hear, cannot help but overhear, for din of shouting is de rigeur, snatches of sidewalk intimacies. which cannot go unheard! and must be taken as given kid, kid you not, what you may overhear is plots of lover revenge, deathbed confessions, why she is sleepingwith her boyfriends brother, (better lover) but the brother, the older, better jobber, has the oolala moola-la! here, is where, I tell you, that ****** these tidbits from their lips, and weave and spun for the fun, into a tapestry Whitman worthy, he too walked the broadways, the loading docks, admired the feathered peacocks of Fifth Ave., turning it into great poetry but a single line of dialogue rings loudest in my memory, it was a silence that suspended the grime and rhyme of all the surrounding noisy distractions, when she hears the man, say matter of factly, the second opinion confirmed the diagnosis, and yes, the cancer had spread, and options now, very limited... the woman. stumbles a step, and says nothing, but grasps his upper arm, slow soft, bring ing up higher and higher, till it almost impedes the man stride, and he looks upon her face with kind eyes, and winces~grimaces~as sympathetic as possible a wispy smile, for he is acknowledging that she, will bear the brunt, the in coming cold front, while he rides the storm, for as long as itis permitted… though the streets are crowded, I believe I am the-only one, proximate enough, to be the sole witness of said tapestry's exchange, and I am, blooded, chest concaving, my temples beat a throbbing beating, and the swirl, of ebb and flow of pedestrian's goings, separate me from them, as they plunge ahead, but the've turn left, and all I see as they dream away from-me, is the-arm, her arm,, squeezing his, as if that lock, could somehow prevent a storm, hurricane, tornado, the tidal wave that is now engulfing them…and then the gone… and I am left bereft, for there is no poetry to quote, must go un spoke, and crawl to a vest pocket garden bench, slumped and stumped this thing why me, was I the one chosen for this knowing, and the answer comes quick, this a warning reminder, to find her, woman, mine, and clutch her arm-too tight, and utter words to her nonsensical, but that comfort me, in an inexplicable wordless way
Continue reading...
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At once you feel it! Stop! Perform an about turn Something behind you! Into your back its eyes burn You shiver and shake; rub the hairs on your arms No-one there but the goose bumps; the sweat on your palms Carry on walking. Swift; humming out loud Desperate now to find yourself deep in a crowd You are sure you can hear it. A breath. A refrain Who is it? Who follows you home once again It has happened before. In fact quite a few nights A shadow appears in the glow of streetlights It is gone by the time you shuffle up; when you dare Where’d it go? Did I see it? Was it ever even there? Put it down to exhaustion. A trick of your mind The tiredness. The ***** The crap daily grind The work. Family; stress. It is driving you mad Makes you see things not there. You’re so ****** sad We all have our demons. Horrors; creatures run wild Dreamed up monsters we’ve nurtured since we were a child But monsters don’t exist here. Bold; out in real life They are fantasies! Just stories. Imaginations run rife Silly idiot. You’re stupid; get a sodding grip And you laugh at your crazy as you feel yourself trip Something was there! It got you! Hear a grunt or a bark It drags you kicking and screaming deep into the dark ©pofacedpoetry (Billy Reynard-Bowness 2018 – All rights reserved)
0
Aug 24, 2018
Aug 24, 2018 at 8:12 AM UTC
DEMONS
What do we really have in this world? Apart from the handwritten letters, the dusty polaroids capturing memorable days long gone, and out battle scars. We have nothing much at all. Because it all gets snatched away too soon.
0
Feb 27, 2018
Feb 27, 2018 at 10:36 AM UTC
Snatched
The body snatcher crawls from the bowels of disaster. With blunt claws and cracked nails, he flays the space, grabbing bodies for the capture. His home but a place to rest, to close his mind and slowly peel the layers of dress, where scars of bodies, picked his flesh. Attempts so desperate, to remain un-snatched. The body snatcher dreams of meat. Meat so rancid, meat so sweet. Some he sells, some he eats. He names it snatched cuisine. The sack he lumbers over shoulder, resembles a black hole, Those who enter, learn here after that death lives stitched in wool, Those once bagged, often gag choking on the stench of others. The body snatcher crawls from the bowels of disaster A shadowy, feared, malicious captor
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Feb 26, 2018
Feb 26, 2018 at 3:49 PM UTC
The Body Snatcher
My edges got snatched And they never came back While I was getting those tracks They got detached There's this empty space At the side of my face I feel ashamed They were even tamed Sick of wearing headbands Just to cover those strands Hoping they'll return I'm getting so concerned Everyday I get fried I want to hide They say my hairline Looks like frankenstein I go home crying I keep on trying To grow them out Without a doubt Next thing you know They start to grow I then show them off And they start to cough
0
Feb 23, 2016
Feb 23, 2016 at 9:35 PM UTC
My Edges