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My Usual Morning Wake and Then a Cup of Coffee to Wipe it All Away (Prose Poetry)
A Welcome Into My Process of Writing Prose
Does a poem just ever spring up in your mind, maybe with some words you have muttered to yourself as you were waking up in the morning? Well, this was my inspiration for this prose poem.
When I woke this morning, my initial thought was the words I wrote in the first few lines of this poem, and like many times before, I would then want to jot them down if I felt they would turn into a piece that would be interesting. Of course, it turns personal within my process, but I like that. It is a type of spiritual release for me. One I welcome, because If I let my negative, or sad thoughts simmer, then I may become depressed.
Actually, this turned into memories of some of my depression days. It started off innocent enough. I think most of us wake sometimes to the dread of another day and night of the same routine. However, subsequently, it just decided to write itself. Remembering pinned up feelings I had from other days and mornings when I didn't know how to self medicate by writing poetry.
I think we all struggle here at times. Even so, I have learned to channel my struggle into my poetry, and in turn, my poetry writing has found me my strength. I hope you enjoy my prose!
Her Morning Recite
And she woke. It was hard, but she rose and wiped her eyes. She wondered if she could make it through another day - another night.
And she felt condemnable. She was guilty for even thinking this way. You know - with all the other sufferings that go on in this screwed-up place.
And she wanted to run. Run away from reality of her own life. She wanted to run, but where would she go. She was never lucky enough to find a true place of her own.
And she looked around - in the same-old place in this same-cold town. Never had she fit here, and still somehow she was stuck in this devil’s den.
And she wished, but what can a wish do... All the ones she sent had been stranded halfway there. No lucky stars caught her wish on their way up heaven’s stairs.
And she took a deep breath in, then sighed. The fight is becoming more difficult just to find the strength to survive.
And she slapped her face and hated herself. She has two beautiful children who need her health.
And she knows she’s sick. A middle-aged woman who has let this world trap her in a place of no wealth.
And she wonders, what it would have felt like to be normal, although, common was never what she really wanted.
And she supposed this was why she had found a destiny of many haunts, and a life of broken dreams, because strange things... no one wants.
Did you understand the reason I wrote this prose piece?
© 2017 Missy Smith