Some Voices

Some voices get heard.
Some voices ignored.
Some voices are monologues.
Some voices join in dialogues.

Some voices have power.
Some voices fall on deaf ears.
Some voices get to lie-detector screen.
Some voices get guillotined.

Some voices find their voice.
Some voices speak for a generation.
Some voices rejoice,
and some voices voice their frustration.

Some voices love the sound of their own.
Some voices mimic their clone.
Some voices rant and rave
and some voices haunt the guilty from the grave.

Some voices bring calm.
Some voices bring harm.
Some voices can sing.
Some voices can sting.

Some voices waft in and out.
Some voices are quintessential.
Some voices tick all the voice boxes.
Some voices are special.

Published by aprettykettleofpoetry

John Di Girolamo was born during the swinging middle ages as the Battle of Hastings raged outside on a cold, miserable Saturday evening just outside 'The Juggler's Arms' in Oxford, Torquay and Exeter at the same time. Born to a family, he spent most of his early years learning how to open umbrellas for a rainy day, and the runnings of horses and sword swallowers and the costs they incurred. Having graduated in 'Circus Management', he took to spinning plates for a living and persuaded his father to buy a restaurant to fund what he believed would be a lucrative career move. However, in the the days leading to The Age of Post Punk', he quit and would embark upon what was to go down in history doodles as a notebook. Few knew it then but he had already started copying poetry, and often written by other people. As the minutes passed by, and Sardinia loomed, the idea of collages and drawings suddenly hit him as a way of filling up what had become a kind of book with pages and all. One day while storming off in a huff because his mum told him to, he struck upon the idea of putting it all together over a long-playing record (later a CD) and during a commercial break in the digital age, decided a blog would end Cromwell's ill-fated republic. Sent off by recorded post, it would be by chance that his poems would get to their ultimate destination as, meanwhile, his pigeon who had queued so loyally for so long, sadly died the day before it was sacked.

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