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The Web Poetry Corner

Nic Treadwell

of

Birmingham, England, UK

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Nic@storyville.f9.co.uk (Nic Treadwell)


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To The Point

by

Nic Treadwell

Why do we always talk about
What we don't?
We have a hidden agenda
Of topics to tackle.
But they somehow get lost.
Swept under the need to play safe.
Straying from ourselves.

Why can't we just say what we mean
Without the in-between?
Our heads are full
Of words, nouns and verbs.
But what spills out from our mouth.
A cocktail of censored scenes
Chosen only to please.


Atmospheres

by

Nic Treadwell

Then,
When the hum of the city
Rode the back of the breeze
In the dead of the night.

There,
A vacuum that swallows
Every last aching breath,
Muting all your cries.

Where,
A passing stare syncopates poise,
Throwing your spirit off course,
To the edge of a bottomless fall.

What,
Emerges out of nothing
To fill a space with a fragment
Of creative truth.

Now,
When the air is cool enough
To tickle the hairs on your skin
In tenderly spin.

Here,
In a moment of synthesis
Between psyches so intense
That for a second they merge.

How,
Eyes spill from a dreaming scene,
Screaming with the force
Of a mothers scream.

When,
The sound of a note
Plays with your head so much
You can't think straight.


Silences

by

Nic Treadwell

There is a space that exists
Between your words and mine
Where notions are drawn
And images are born
Where tunes are hummed
And magazine pages are thumbed
Set to the rhythm of an undercurrent
Running between our thoughts

There is a language present
In the silence between us
It can not be read
Nor can it be said
It doesn't have form
It can only be worn
Caught in the motion of emotion
Which grows in our flesh and bone

There is a place we go to
When the sign says "Don't talk"
In silence we stay
Where it's safe and warm
Far from the storm
And it's here we'll give birth
To a pregnant pause

There is a person who see's
Through the silence in you
Where talk is small
And syllables fall
In a wordless world
Where echoes unfurl
And there, held in this hand
An offer of friendship, the only sound


TIMES EYE

by

Nic Treadwell

History is a fallacy
A swollen fantasy
Caught up in itself
And every persons sanity
Future dissolves infinitely
Past a point of reality
Lives of many blurred
Running in duality

The eye within beholder
Mind reaching over
Random roulette revolver
Shots echoing closer

Poetry Competition

STORYVILLE

by

Nic Treadwell

This is where we throw off the nine to five
This is where we find our truth
This is where we build our strength
This is where we live our dreams
In Storyville...

Please visit my site at: http://www.storyville.pwp.blueyonder.co.uk/
Which features works of fiction, lyrics, poems, fantasy & humour, online journal, internet serial The Nexus and more.

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