Snezana Voakes

God Don’t Miss

2 months ago | [YT] | 0

Snezana Voakes

“You thought no one was watching..
But fate don’t blink..
And God don’t miss..”

New release.. coming soon..

“God Don’t Miss.”
© 2025 Snezanox. Snezana Voakes. All rights reserved.

#GodDontMiss #Snezanox #DarkRap #RapPoetry #LyricalRap #DeepRap #EpicRap #PoeticJustice #TruthNeverDies #SnezanaVoakes #NewMusic2025 #ArtistOnTheRise #ViralLyrics #FYP #lyrics #PoetryCommunity #ModernPoetry #WarPoetry #GlobalReality #newmusic #news

2 months ago | [YT] | 0

Snezana Voakes

www.facebook.com/share/v/18iJebr8GM/?mibextid=wwXI…

9 months ago | [YT] | 0

Snezana Voakes

https://youtu.be/2EBYokkIZbM?feature=...


One Night” — poem🪶

She:
You came too late — the stars were ash,
my heart was dust, the sky mid-crash.
I begged for you through lifeless years,
then found you standing in my tears.

He:
I knew you long before we met.
In dreams I never could forget.
You were the ache I could not name,
the fire that flickered out of frame.

She:
I searched through mouths that weren’t yours,
through broken nights and closing doors.
I touched the world and felt no skin
until your voice called out within.

He:
And now we meet with time run dry,
no space to bloom, no breath to try.
We hold the spark, but not the flame,
one night, no future, no last name.

She:
Then take me now — destroy me slow,
unmake the self I used to know.
I’d rather burn and feel it all,
than never rise, than never fall.

He:
I’ll give you ruins, sacred pain,
a love the gods won’t let remain.
I’ll carve my name into your chest,
then leave it silent, like the rest.

She:
And when you go — as dawn demands,
will I still tremble in your hands?
Will time erase this cursed divine,
or will you still be partly mine?

He:
I’ll go like stars you never caught,
like myths the living soon forgot.
But I will haunt the breath you take–
a shadow love refused to break.

She:
Then let me be the wound you keep,
the echo stitched into your sleep.
Remember me not soft, but true –
the storm you didn’t make it through.

“One Night” by Snezana Voakes, 6th Apr 2025🩶
© Snezana Voakes 2025. All rights reserved.
#poetry #snezanavoakes #new #poem #OneNightOnly #onenight

9 months ago (edited) | [YT] | 0

Snezana Voakes

youtube.com/playlist?list=OLA...

9 months ago | [YT] | 0

Snezana Voakes

10 months ago | [YT] | 0

Snezana Voakes

“The Way the Light Left” — a poem 🪶of grief, love, and light returning. Now released as both a mellow, heartbeat-paced dance single “WITH ME” and the immersive “WITH ME (Club Edition)”. 🎶 It’s yours now—feel it mellow or turn your bass on and fly through it. 🩶

“The Way the Light Left” —poem 🪶

The way the light left, no one noticed.
A whisper fled the windowpane.
She stood in stillness, bone and silence,
And breathed his name, and breathed his name.

The room remembered how he held it—
The coat still slumped, the shoes askew.
The clocks kept ticking out their curses,
But nothing new, but nothing new.

She wore her grief like something stolen,
A cloak too wide, too wild, too worn.
She kissed the bed where he once whispered,
And begged the dawn, and begged the dawn.

They said he left “in just a moment,”
They said he “didn’t feel a thing.”
But oh, she felt it—like an anthem
With no one left who dares to sing.

She screamed his name inside the laundry,
She spilled his coffee on the floor,
She clutched the keys he wouldn’t need now,
And locked the door, and locked the door.

Outside, the world kept birthing morning,
The sky went on in cruel blue.
Inside, her hands forgot their purpose,
And reached for two, and reached for two.

She aged a decade in a Tuesday,
She lived a war in pouring rain.
And every breath became a battle
Against his name, against his name.

No grave could hold the weight she carried,
No stone could speak the words she kept.
She loved him like the sea loves drowning,
And as she wept, and as she wept.

The light came back. A single sliver.
It touched her shoulder, soft and true.
And in its hush, she heard him answer:
“I’m still with you. I’m still with you.”

By Snezana Voakes🩶
© Snezana Voakes 2025. All rights reserved.

🪶When the Light Left the World: A Literary and Philosophical Reading of “The Way the Light Left”
—by Snezana Voakes

Grief does not knock. It enters as light departs - imperceptibly, irrevocably. In “The Way the Light Left”, the reader is ushered not into death, but into the consciousness of the one left behind, where language fractures, time blurs, and love becomes an ache without edges. This poem is not a mere elegy, it is an existential topography, mapping the terrain of absence as both a metaphysical presence and a psychological intruder. Each stanza behaves like a palimpsest, bearing the weight of visible emotion and invisible metaphysics, what is said and what is endured.

⚜️The Phenomenology of Absence

The opening line, “The way the light left, no one noticed”, is more than poetic imagery, it is a thesis. Echoing phenomenologist Maurice Merleau-Ponty, who posited that absence is not the opposite of presence, but a mode of it, the poem begins with a metaphysical paradox: the departure of light (life, meaning, love) that goes unseen. In that very lack of witness, the poem roots the cruelty of grief - it is not just death that wounds, but its refusal to announce itself.

The second line: “A whisper fled the windowpane”, elevates the sensory void. “Whisper” and “fled” evoke something both intimate and ephemeral. Here, we find a hauntology (as theorised by Jacques Derrida), where that which is gone continues to linger, not in form but in echo, in the intangible traces that inhabit memory and space.

⚜️Psychological Architecture of Mourning

Stanza two brings us into the interior world where grief haunts the ordinary:
“The room remembered how he held it— / The coat still slumped, the shoes askew.”
Here, personification serves a dual function. First, it anthropomorphises the setting - granting agency to memory itself. Second, it stages what Freud termed in Mourning and Melancholia (1917) as the displacement of libido: the mourner cannot redirect love, so the psyche clings to objects: the coat, the shoes; as relics of the loved one’s presence. These are not symbols; they are surrogates.

The poet deepens this psychic warzone with the repetition:
“But nothing new, but nothing new.”
This line is a psychological Möbius strip. It illustrates the temporal stagnation of trauma, in which every moment after loss becomes a repetition of the moment of loss. Neurologically, this mirrors findings in PTSD studies where the amygdala and hippocampus loop emotionally charged memories, preventing chronological progress.

⚜️Language as Resistance and Ruin

The stanza “She wore her grief like something stolen, A cloak too wide, too wild, too worn” introduces an image of ill-fitting identity. The use of “stolen” suggests shame, as if grief is an intrusion rather than a right. The repetition of “too” serves not just rhythmically but semantically: this is excess grief, in a society that often demands neatness from mourners. One is reminded of Antigone, who dies not only because of her brother’s death, but because she refuses to let grief be dictated by state or structure.

⚜️This is also where the poem begins to critique social scripts of mourning:
“They said he left ‘in just a moment,’ They said he ‘didn’t feel a thing.’”
The passive platitudes of others are dissected and held against the visceral reality: “But oh, she felt it - like an anthem, With no one left who dares to sing.”
Here, grief is elevated to the scale of national mourning, a private anthem without an audience. This paradox mirrors the psychoanalytic insight that language fails the mourner - no symbol system can fully contain what has been lost.

⚜️Ordinary Madness

One of the most psychologically piercing stanzas reads:
“She screamed his name inside the laundry, She spilled his coffee on the floor, She clutched the keys he wouldn’t need now, And locked the door, and locked the door.”

This is where the poem reaches its Beckettian absurdity - an echo of Endgame where routine becomes theatre for grief. The quotidian becomes ritual, and ritual becomes madness. These actions are not narrative progression, but emotional proof: she is animating the dead through gesture, trying to undo finality through repetition. The doubled line “and locked the door” closes the stanza like a coffin lid.

⚜️Temporal Dissonance and Philosophical Trauma

The line “She aged a decade in a Tuesday” is a literary thunderclap. It is a rebellion against linear time as an assertion of subjective temporality, à la Henri Bergson. The poem insists that trauma does not follow clocks. This echoes Einstein’s relativity not only in physics but in emotional terms: time dilates under the gravity of pain. The stanza continues:
“She lived a war in pouring rain.”
This is psychological combat, suggesting that mourning is its own private apocalypse. Each breath, “a battle Against his name.”

⚜️The Return of the Light: Redemption Without Resolution

The poem’s final movement risks sentimentality but does not succumb.
“The light came back. A single sliver. It touched her shoulder, soft and true.”
This is not divine resurrection, but something subtler - the world refusing to stay silent. It recalls Virginia Woolf’s recurring use of light to represent consciousness reawakening, not with triumph, but with gentle insistence. And then the final grace note:
“And in its hush, she heard him answer: ‘I’m still with you. I’m still with you.’”

This line does not promise metaphysical truth, it offers psychological necessity. Whether he speaks through memory, hallucination, or faith is left unspoken. What matters is her need and the poem honors that need without judgment. This is not closure - it is co-existence with absence.

⚜️On Loving Like Drowning

In one of the poem’s most devastating lines, we find its philosophical center:
“She loved him like the sea loves drowning”
This is a love that includes its own destruction, a love that cannot be separated from its own undoing. Like the sea, grief is boundless, and like drowning, it obliterates identity. But the poem does not leave us in ruin. The sliver of light, and the voice in the hush, remind us that to be haunted is also to be held.

“The Way the Light Left” is not merely a lament. It is a study of how the self unravels, reforms, resists, and remains in the wake of a beloved’s silence. In the lineage of Keats’ negative capability, Dickinson’s fierce interiority, and Plath’s crystalline grief, this poem stands as an ode to endurance and to the quiet miracle of light returning.

By Snezana Voakes🩶
© Snezana Voakes 2025. All rights reserved.

#TheWayTheLightLeft #WithMe #ClubEdition #NewMusic #DarkPop #EmotionalDance #GriefAndGroove #DanceThroughIt #HeartbeatSound #BassAndFeeling #MusicForTheBroken #PoetryInMotion #poetry #snezanavoakes #lyricist #PhilosophyInVerse #cinematicmusic #newrelease #poem #FutureStars

Snezana Voakes - WITH ME (Club Edition)
distrokid.com/hyperfollow/snezanavoakes/with-me-cl…

10 months ago | [YT] | 0

Snezana Voakes

“The Last Thing I’ll Ever Love” poem and “STILL MINE” song version are released 🩶

❤️“The Last Thing I’ll Ever Love” poem🪶

I loved you not with quiet hands,
But like a storm that breaks the land.
With every breath, I gave you flame,
And wore your soul like it was mine to claim.

You ran from me with eyes of glass,
Still I chased shadows through the grass.
You screamed in silence, cold and wide,
And I stood bleeding by your side.

You were the wound I kissed each night,
The chaos I mistook for light.
And still, I whispered through your pain,
As if my love could stop the rain.

You lit the match and watched me burn,
But love like mine does not return.
I’d die again just for your gaze,
A thousand deaths in softer ways.

You healed the parts that broke in war,
Then left me emptier than before.
And though you vanished like a thief,
I wear your ghost beneath my grief.

Forgive me—no, I can’t pretend,
I let you go and lost my end.
You were the song I couldn’t sing,
The final fall, the shattered wing.

And if the stars forget my name,
If time erases all I claim—
Let this remain, carved deep and true:
The last thing I’ll ever love…
was you.

By Snezana Voakes🩶
© Snezana Voakes 2025. All rights reserved.

🪶“The Last Thing I’ll Ever Love”: A Psychological Elegy and Philosophical Testament of Devotion
— by Snezana Voakes

⚜️In a world numbed by fleeting affection and transactional intimacy, “The Last Thing I’ll Ever Love” erupts as a rare act of emotional absolutism — a poem that bleeds with such raw, undiluted devotion that it resurrects the ancient idea of love as both sacrament and sacrifice. From the very first line, we are not invited but dragged into the unfiltered psyche of someone who did not merely love — they dissolved inside another soul.

⚜️“I loved you not with quiet hands, / But like a storm that breaks the land.”

Here lies no passive affection. These lines announce a love that is violent, elemental, and annihilating — a storm, not a sonnet. From the outset, the speaker positions love not as a gentle surrender, but as a cosmic force, echoing Nietzschean will, where passion becomes a kind of sacred destruction. This is not love as possession, but love as total becoming.

⚜️Psychologically, the poem navigates the ruins of anxious attachment and emotional enmeshment. The speaker blurs all personal boundaries, confessing to having “worn” the other’s soul, revealing an existential need to merge rather than merely connect. It’s the pathology of one who doesn’t fall in love but disappears into it.

⚜️“You were the wound I kissed each night, / The chaos I mistook for light.”

Here, the poem takes a sharp, introspective turn — a moment of clarity wrapped in sorrow. What was once mistaken for divine becomes known as damage. It’s a line worthy of a Dostoevsky character — a recognition of trauma bonding dressed as devotion, and a tragic misreading of pain as purpose. The lover has become a martyr, whispering into voids, as if tenderness could replace therapy, as if love could undo entropy.

⚜️Philosophically, the poem reads like a disillusioned gospel of romantic fatalism. Every stanza strips down the idea that love is reciprocal, redemptive, or rational. The beloved is emotionally distant, even cruel — “you lit the match and watched me burn” — yet the speaker remains, and even returns willingly to the fire. This is the psyche of a voluntary sacrifice, one who finds meaning not in being loved, but in loving — even when it destroys them.

⚜️“You healed the parts that broke in war, / Then left me emptier than before.”

This line reveals the paradox of temporary salvation. The beloved serves as a balm and a blade. Healing becomes a prelude to deeper devastation — post-traumatic intimacy disorder, where love awakens what it cannot sustain. The ghost of the beloved lingers beneath the speaker’s grief — a psychological imprint, not unlike the phantom limb of a once-intact soul.

⚜️“You were the song I couldn’t sing, / The final fall, the shattered wing.”

These lines expand the grief into the poetic realm of unrealised destiny. The speaker identifies love not as something shared, but as something eternally incomplete. The “song” becomes a metaphor for an unlived life, for potential that was tasted but never fulfilled. We are in the realm of the tragic sublime — like Orpheus reaching for Eurydice in the underworld, and failing by turning back.

⚜️And then comes the staggering final stanza — not a conclusion, but a monument:

“And if the stars forget my name, / If time erases all I claim— / Let this remain, carved deep and true: / The last thing I’ll ever love… was you.”

In these lines, the speaker gives up everything — legacy, memory, selfhood — except for the truth of their love. This is romantic martyrdom elevated to existential affirmation. Even if the universe forgets them, even if time obliterates meaning, this one truth must remain: that love, no matter how painful, was real. Here, the poem approaches the Heideggerian horizon — where being is tied not to legacy, but to presence, to the moment of pure, unfiltered feeling that defies erasure.

⚜️“The Last Thing I’ll Ever Love” is more than poetry. It is a psychological autopsy, a spiritual dirge, and a philosophical declaration wrapped in verse. It examines love not through sentiment, but through sacrifice — not as a shared joy, but as a solitary truth etched into the soul’s most intimate architecture. It dares to say what many fear to feel: that some loves don’t save you — they become you.

If poetry has a power beyond beauty — if it exists to articulate the unspeakable — then this poem belongs not in the quiet pages of a journal, but carved into stone, where storms and time can try, and fail, to erase it.

By Snezana Voakes🩶
© Snezana Voakes 2025. All rights reserved.

❤️“STILL MINE” song lyrics 🎶

[Verse 1]
I gave you love with shaking hands,
Built you a world from broken plans.
You looked at me like I was flame—
Then turned around and left the same.

I held my breath, I held the line,
You slipped like water every time.
I knew you’d leave, but not like this—
No warning, no last touch, no kiss.

[Chorus]
Still mine—In every cry.
Still mine—Though you said goodbye.
Still mine—When the stars don’t shine.
Still mine—Though you were never mine.

[Verse 2]
You walked through fire, I stayed behind,
You chased the sun, I lost my mind.
You moved like no one ever could—
I let you go… I knew I should.

But love like this don’t disappear,
It echoes loud when no one’s near.
Your ghost still lives inside my chest—
A bleeding heart that never rests.

[Chorus ]
Still mine—Through every night.
Still mine—When wrong feels right.
Still mine—When your voice is gone.
Still mine—In every song.

[Bridge]
You don’t know what you still are…
A scar, a storm, a falling star.
You left, but never really did—
I carry you in every breath I hid.

[Final Chorus]
Still mine—Though years have passed.
Still mine—You were my first, my last.
Still mine—Though you moved on.
Still mine—Like a faded song.

Still mine—With every line…
You were never truly gone…
Still mine.
Still mine.
Still…
Mine.

By Snezana Voakes🩶
© Snezana Voakes 2025. All rights reserved.

#TheLastThingIwillEverLove #cinematicmusic #poetictruth #snezanavoakes #newrelease #philosophicallyrics #poetry #poem #lyricist #PoetryOfTheMind #LyricsThatHeal #PhilosophyInVerse #ThePsychologyOfPain #EmotionalIntelligence #stillmine

10 months ago | [YT] | 0

Snezana Voakes

🪶 “Tell Me Before I Find Out” & 🎼 “Tell Me” – Statement of Origin, by Snezana Voakes

This is not a song.
This is not a poem.

This is the final thing the soul says before it strikes.
One more lie… and you will meet the gods you made.

🪶Tell Me Before I Find Out was not written. It was torn from the silence that betrayal built.
It is the moment the scar becomes voice. The moment the voice becomes flame. The moment flame stops asking to be understood.

This is not art for decoration. This is art for survival.

🪶It comes from the terrain between psychology and prophecy—a place where swallowed pain stops digesting and begins to remember.
It is the voice of the self that has been reshaped, rewritten, erased—and who now refuses to remain interpretable.

🪶“We rise not just to heal—but strike.
To birth the truth your gods denied.”

This is not metaphor.
This is history.
This is the French Revolution in a heartbeat.
The Arab Spring in a stanza.
This is every fire that rose the moment a lie became law.

🪶Psychologically, this work is trauma incarnate:
it moves like the wounded mind: first silent, then splitting.
Philosophically, it is revolt against inherited obedience.
Spiritually, it is heresy against gods who were never gods, only names for fear, wrapped in ritual.

Who made the gods we serve?
Who decided forgiveness was holy, but rebellion was sin?
Who benefits when we remain soft, silent, and small?

🪶I do not write from peace.
I write from fracture.
But in that fracture I found something ancient
and it was not despair. It was fire.

This is not a gentle poem.
It is not a safe song.
It is a warning.
A reckoning.
A blade passed from silence to flame.

🪶And if you are trembling as you read this—good.
That means something buried inside you just stirred.
This work is not here to please you.
It is here to remind you who you were before you were made obedient.

🪶This is a mirror.
This is a torch.
This is the line in the sand before the gods fall.

And if no one tells the truth before the fire comes
let this be the last thing spoken before the world remembers itself: Tell me. Before I find out.

🪶If your hands are shaking, they should be.
This poem was meant to shake.
It was meant to confront.
It was meant to go where politeness cannot: inside you.
To name what was never given a name.
To speak what was buried beneath poetic restraint and spiritual sedation.

🪶This is not just music.
This is a reckoning.

History has already shown us: when manipulation becomes religion and pain repeats long enough,the soul does not heal. It ignites.

This is the moment before transformation,
where betrayal births fire and truth becomes weapon.

🪶Inspired by the shadow of Jung, the fire of Nietzsche, and the revolts carved into the memory of mankind this is the voice that rises when silence can no longer protect the lie.

One more lie… and you will meet the gods you made.

🪶Manipulation is not merely a personal failure.
It is a systemic violence of the mind, the slow erosion of selfhood, the replacement of instinct with obedience, and the reprogramming of identity to serve someone else's myth.

It disguises control as care.
It rewrites memory.
It silences truth not by force, but by doubt.

And the science is clear: Trauma is not just a wound, it is an architecture. As Bessel van der Kolk writes, “the body keeps the score.”

Manipulation wires itself into the nervous system,
into the rhythms of the breath, into the shape of silence.

🪶But every forced silence builds pressure. And every suppressed truth waits to detonate.

What Tell Me Before I Find Out makes clear is this: there is a price for manipulation. Not always in law. Not always in consequence. But always—in the return of fire.

🪶Every manipulative abuser leaves behind a soul reshaped by their violence. But that soul, when it wakes—does not ask for justice.
It becomes it.

This piece stands as a warning to those who exploit empathy: you do not erase what you silence. You delay its return. And when it returns, it no longer speaks your name in surrender.
It speaks it in flame.

🪶So if you are reading this and you have been silenced, know that this work is yours.
And if you are reading this and you have done the silencing, know that this work will outlive you.

Because no lie lives forever.
And no fire forgets.

🎼”Tell Me Before I Find Out” and its song adaptation “Tell Me” are now available on all major platforms. ⚜️

By Snezana Voakes🩶
© Snezana Voakes 2025. All rights reserved.

❤️POEM❤️

Part I

The wires burn, the stories spread
Truth runs late, the lies run red.
The hands that lead, the lips that vow
Tell me before I find out.
One more knife, just try, just see-
You'll meet the god, not just meet me.

Part II

The wires burn, the silence screams,
Truth runs late through broken dreams.
The lies run red, the knives run deep,
And gods we trusted learn to sleep.

The hands that feed now pull the chain,
The lips that kiss still speak in pain.
One more lie—just try, just dare
And we’ll be fire, not flesh, not air.

We’ve stitched our wounds, we’ve bit our cries,
We’ve knelt beneath your hollow skies.
But one more cut, one final shove
And we will burn what we once loved.

No prayers left in aching bone,
No mercy carved in blood and stone.
You shaped us sharp, you taught us fear
Now feel the blade you forged right here.

For pain, when caged, becomes a flame
Not meek, not pure, not bowed in shame.
And here’s the truth your world denied:
We rise not just to heal but strike.
To birth the truth your gods denied.

🎶 Song lyrics 🎶

Wires burn.
Silence breaks.
Truth runs late.
The shadow wakes.
Lies run red.
Masks fall thin.
Ash on lips.
Fire within.
Hands that feed
Pull the thread.
Words that vow
Leave us dead.

Tell me now—before it’s fire.
Before the blood becomes desire.
Tell me now—before we break.
Before the flame becomes the stake.
Tell me now—before it’s fate.
Or meet the gods you helped create.

We held our breath.
We bit our cries.
We wore your names.
We lived your lies.
One more cut,
One more chain—
And we will rise
From ash and pain.
You stitched our wounds,
You drew our line—
But now the flame
Is fully mine.

Tell me now—before it’s fire.
Before the blood becomes desire.
Tell me now—before we break.
Before the flame becomes the stake.
Tell me now—before it’s fate.
Or meet the gods you helped create.

We rise to strike,
Not just to heal.
We burn to birth
What you conceal.
So speak—
Before I find it out.
Before the storm
Becomes the shout.

© Snezana Voakes 2025. All rights reserved.

#TellMeBeforeIFindOut #PoetryOfResistance #RebellionInVerse #TruthInFire #PoetryOfPain #SoulOnTheEdge #DarkPoetry #EpicVerse #ModernProphecy #RisingFromSilence #PoeticReckoning #WordAsWeapon #SnezanaVoakes #snezanaoakespoetry #FemalePoet #IndependentAuthor #FierceVerse #cinematicmusic #poetry #lyricist #NewMusic2025 #newrelease

10 months ago | [YT] | 0

Snezana Voakes

THE PUPPET’S PULSE – MANIFESTO 🪶

There is a silence louder than truth.
A bow so deep it breaks the back of a soul.
And in that silence, beneath the polished rituals of compliance,
The Puppet’s Pulse beats.

This is not a song of rebellion for its own sake.
It is an elegy for integrity lost, and an anthem for those who refuse to barter the sacred for survival.

Across systems, across centuries, the same theater repeats:
A figure steps forward—smiling, polished, agreeable.
He does not speak; he recites.
He does not lead; he reflects.
Not a man, not a mind—only a vessel of echo and expedience.

He grins in the light, kneels in the dark, and calls his fear “wisdom.”
He praises the powerful, shuns the principled, and survives—not by standing,
but by bending further than the rest.

This is not new. Philosophy named him long ago.

Jean-Paul Sartre saw him in the corridors of bad faith,
a being who refuses the burden of freedom and instead becomes a thing—
a function of expectation, a marionette of the masses.
Heidegger found him too, dwelling in the realm of Das Man,
where the individual dissolves into the anonymous “they,”
living not from truth but from the roles prescribed by power and popularity.

Nietzsche, perhaps more scathing than all, called him the last man—
the one who no longer strives, who seeks comfort over courage,
security over soul, and mocks those who still reach toward the fire.
He survives, yes. But survival is his ceiling.
He feels nothing. Risks nothing. Creates nothing.

And yet, this puppet is not fiction. He is everywhere.
He sits on boards, signs laws, leads campaigns.
He edits truth into palatability.
He nods along as systems rot beneath him.
He builds nothing—but ascends.

But psychology has traced his origins too.
Milgram’s experiments exposed how ordinary people, absent resistance,
inflict suffering on command—so long as a figure of authority absolves them.
Asch’s studies revealed how the truth itself bends beneath the weight of peer pressure.
This puppet is not born evil; he is born afraid.
He wants to belong more than he wants to be right.

Cognitive dissonance festers in him—
the war between his private conscience and his public performance.
And so, he rewrites the narrative.
“I’m just doing my job.”
“It’s not the time to speak.”
“I’m protecting my future.”
These are not reasons. They are retreat.

History remembers him only in the shadows.
He stood quietly during every atrocity—just outside the frame.
He was there, saluting softly as neighbors were taken.
Filing reports. Enforcing silence. Avoiding blame.
Hannah Arendt, witnessing the trials of such men,
called it the banality of evil—the horror not of monsters,
but of men who surrendered their will and called it duty.

And still today, in boardrooms, parliaments, and platforms,
the puppet thrives.

He dresses obedience in eloquence.
He markets mediocrity as moderation.
He trims truth until it fits the algorithm.
He scolds the bold and rewards the silent.
He calls loyalty a virtue, even as it serves the hollow.

But The Puppet’s Pulse is not his song.
It does not bow.
It does not echo.
It does not wait for permission to speak.

This piece belongs to those who carry the burden of voice in a time of whispers.
To those who have watched the cost of courage rise—
and paid it anyway.

It is a tribute to those who refuse to kneel,
not out of pride, but because their spine was carved from principle,
not plastic.

They will not perform surrender to keep their seat at the table.
They will not sell what is sacred for salary or spotlight.
They will not trade fire for comfort.

Because they were never built to bow.
Not to power.
Not to fear.
And never—never—to sell their integrity for applause, safety, or reward.

When the tide turns—and it will—
the puppet will be left beneath the waves,
tangled in his strings,
a hollow man with no music left to move him.

But those who stood—quietly, fiercely, without compromise—
they will be the ones still standing when the noise fades.

Their pulse is not puppetry.
It is truth.

And it still beats…The song version of The Puppet’s Pulse is now released, based on my original poem of the very same name.
It speaks to quiet courage, to truth held firm,
and to those who choose integrity over comfort 🩶

by Snezana Voakes Mar 2025
© Snezana Voakes 2025. All rights reserved.

❤️Link to the poem and song lyrics 🪶

www.facebook.com/share/v/14eBWNvo4xQ/?mibextid=wwX…

by Snezana Voakes Mar 2025
© Snezana Voakes 2025. All rights reserved.

#newmusic #poetry #lyricist #lyrics #poem #NewRelease2025 #thepuppetspulse #IntegrityUnbowed #QuietCourage #VoicesThatRefuse #ElegyForIntegrity #PrinciplesOverPower #NietzschesLastMan #SartresPuppet #HeideggersDasMan #BanalityOfEvil #MilgramEffect #AschConformity #CognitiveDissonance

10 months ago | [YT] | 0