Miss Vincent

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Non-Fiction  |  House: Poetry House

Nobody noticed when Joyce died in her bedsit above a shopping mall in North London, England, Aged 27.
Her body wasn't discovered for over a year. I write this after whatching a documentry on her.

Miss Vincent, We thought we all knew you, we thought you were great. Acquainted by many, outward and fun. Truth is told, known by none.

Miss Vincent, You hid your emotional reality, only pretending to take part. Never able to be honest, you locked the door upon your heart. You were eloquent, beautiful and bright. No one had any idea of your plight.

Miss Vincent, You seemed to have it all, your isolated life looking full. Your intimate self never on view, unable to engage the real you. At every party, you were the life and soul; in reality you carried a gaping hole.

Miss Vincent, You were loved by many, but kept them at bay, Your loneliness concealed, hidden away. Like a shadow in the night, unable to find the light. The illusions of reality disappeared as you pretended everything was great, wiping away the tears of your fate. Always living for the “another” day.

Miss Vincent, when you disappeared, no one asked why? No one aware you had come to your end, We mustn’t let this become the new trend!


Submitted: January 25, 2020

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Bert Broomberg

Great poem about a very sad situation, so indicative of our times.

Sat, January 25th, 2020 7:15pm

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