I write pros

I do not write poems
Poems are merely prose
Separated into clever lines
Which can sometimes confuse the reader
Into thinking it’s a poem.
I, I write prose.

To write my prose, I consider the stars
How they twinkly gaily above my head
Yet if I were nearer
They would cook me
From the inside, out
Their force would crush my every element of my physical being
And all the while
Some one, somewhere
Would be considering the stars
And how they twinkle merrily over their head

While writing my prose
I consider a single seed to a blade of strengthening grass
A solitary blade which so easily sways from side to side
Yet its strength being enough
To carve and cut through that which pushes it down
To maneuver its way
To sunlight
Through the heavy cement which tries so desperately
To quash said blade of grass
Carrying the strength of a tree
Which looms high above -
Giant branches which shelter -
Fruits which feed -
Roots which drink
And hold.
Trees which create a wood
Which thrives to become a forest
Becoming a wilderness of life!
Life to feed on life.
To feed
On a single seed to a blade of strengthening grass

While writing my prose
I hydrate and consider the droplets of water
Which compile my contained beverage
The magic, as water
Escapes my glass
Through condensation
Which will eventually evaporate
Rising high into our atmosphere
To create clouds.
Clouds!
Clouds!
When it rains, the earth sings, even when it floods
As raindrops carry life within them.
Bacteria, to play God’s role -
Gathering to heal -
Gathering to kill.
The raindrops accumulate to oceans
Which mimic the roles of bacteria
To heal
To kill
Rolling several tons of pressure
Lazily from one shore to the next
Playing tag with the continents
Playing tricks of condensation on a glass.

I wish I could write poems
I wish I could rhyme
and separate my prose
into witty short lines
which hold a rhythm
But instead i write prose
That I can mask as poetry
Ha, ha, I fooled you