Stolen

For today’s prompt, write a stolen poem. And no, don’t steal anyone’s poem! But you can write about doing such a thing. Or stealing hearts, stealing time, stealing minds. Or steeling your mind (remember: I don’t care if you play on my original prompt). Steal away into a comfortable place to write and break some lines today.

gold-ring-1-1424764-639x452

Stolen

I saw my hand try to snatch that precious
gold from his, like I was watching someone
else but it was mine.

grasping
grabbing
clawing
punching
strangling

I don’t know why it wasn’t me
but it was my birthday.
He owed me another present.
That ring found in the riverbed
was rightfully mine.

Can you steal
from the dead?

I’ve been wondering
since they cast me out
Ingrates!
alone and silent
except for the gurgling
in my throat.

As I climb under
this mountain,
I’ll admit I’m a thief
but I’ve come to see
that it’s the ring
that stole my life
from me.

About Bartholomew Barker

Bartholomew Barker was born and raised in Ohio, studied in Chicago, worked in Connecticut for nearly twenty years before moving to Hillsborough, North Carolina where he makes money as a computer programmer to fund his poetry habit.
This entry was posted in Poetry and tagged , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

6 Responses to Stolen

  1. Lisa Tomey says:

    Oh my goodness! Thank You for sharing.

  2. Violet Lentz says:

    This has a Bad Seed ring to it.

  3. Patty says:

    Conjuring Lord of the Ring vibes for me! I got chills. 👏🏾👏🏾👏🏾

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