Nelly Vee Scores IPC Poetry Victory & Service Award Nomination

✨ Exciting News!

In an unexpected and humbling honor,
Nelly Vee has been nominated for the 2025 NSWA P.O.E.T. Community Service Award—a national recognition celebrating poets whose work uplifts communities and drives meaningful social impact.

His nomination reflects his ongoing efforts to use poetry as a bridge to uplift, connect, and rebuild lives.

“To be nominated for something rooted in service and storytelling is humbling,” Nelly Vee shared. “This honor means everything.”

🗳️ Make Your Voice Count

If Nelly Vee’s words have ever moved you, inspired you, or helped you see yourself—please show your support.
🔗 Cast your vote here: https://shout.com/s/iXedCkDb/i/2313049

Let’s honor a voice that speaks for many.

Media Contact:

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Featured Submissions by TC Neville Senior (aka Nelly Vee)

She Writes Like I Bleed

© TC Neville Senior (aka Nelly Vee)
I met my daughter again—not in person first, but in poetry.
Fifteen years vanished like breath in frost. She was seven when they took her—my baby girl, now twenty-three, with words that echo wounds I once hid.
In every verse, I saw myself. The rage. The rhythm. The rawness.
No one told me she writes. No one told me she writes like me. As if absence taught her the shape of silence. As if pain passed down through blood and broken courts became art.
She writes like I bleed—unapologetically. And in her lines, I learned who she became without me.
Not a victim. A vessel. Of survival. Of fire. Of truth.
Now we sit—father and daughter—unpacking years in metaphors. She is my favorite poet. Not because she found her voice… but because she found mine, too.

The Caged One Writes Flame

© TC Neville Senior (aka Nelly Vee)
They locked me away—not in bars, but behind betrayal.
Tore me from my children, ripped roots from the soil of family. Said I wouldn’t rise. Said I’d forget.
But the body they tried to bury held a spirit they couldn’t kill.
I became two—the man in chains, and the fire that wrote through walls.
My enemies built a prison thinking pain would silence me, but my soul took the pen and scratched scripture on smoke.
I, the poet, am the part of me that burned only to become light.
Each word—a resurrection. Each line—a step back to my children.
I write from the wounds they never saw heal. From the ashes of courtrooms, cold visits, empty chairs.
They think I’m gone, but I’m coming—with ink and vengeance, with truth and fire.
Not to beg. Not to break. But to rebuild.
The caged one writes flame—and the flame remembers everything.