me.
They read aloud their stories that they'd
chopped
(so it looked like poetry).
Perfect punctuation, organized thoughts, chronological order.
Here's my title. Line break. First this. Line break. Then this. Then - line break- that. Line break. In conclusion. The end.
A notch here,
a note there
with my purple felt tip pen.
I pause each time.
This is prose.
It's prose.
It sounds like prose.
Prose.
Now I know free verse poetry can be anything. It can be broken prose. It can tell a story. It's free. It can. Technically. I can free verse poem like this. It's fine.
But- I object- once more, please let me.
Prose runs through the body in neat, tight veins. It branches from the heart. It nourishes the brain.
Poetry flows out of cuts
runs down the skin
pours out
untethered
unleashed.
It drips
or gushes
or spirts.
It leaves stains.
So I'll strain and stain their papers with that
purple felt tip pen.
I'll let them settle for perfect packaged poems because
I think poetry comes with scars
and I'm glad they don't know yet what that's like.
