Category: Prose Poetry

As I walked outside, the sun shining in the sky, the cool temperature and the air fallen silent. I stared straight ahead of me as my feet carried me forward on their own, automatic.

I straightened my back. The sun's approaching sunset, its golden light making the world seem like I'm in some sort of movie scene. The sidewalk, the trees, and the neighboring houses that I pass by. 

Only my feet carried me forward, and my eyes glazed over as the sun's golden light made everything look pretty. I don't know why it has to be so beautiful. 

"Will you stop being so beautiful?" I said.

"I cannot," the sun replied solemnly.

And then for some reason, all I did was keep staring straight ahead of me. My feet carrying me forward on their own, automatic.

I’m gonna be honest here:

I’m not a good poet because my pen is possessed, my mind is a mess. I don’t have a rhythm and I don’t like to rhyme if it hinders my thoughts. I have a storm that makes me go in circles and trip, and sometimes the wind picks me up so I know how it’s like to drift, even when I’m strapped in a seat belt in a car going straight.

I don’t like it when words taste like metal,
or when they sound like plastic,
and for some reason I’m
noticing this more and more often—

It’s hard to see invisible words in the air. I don’t mean to seem like I don’t see you either, cause everything’s a fast blur ’til I’m in my place, I apologize for each and every time you’re pushed away... by a gust of wind, the turbulence of bottling in, trying to keep my lines even.

But the thunder doesn’t roll, it implodes,
and my pen seems to move on her own,
But maybe that’s because I’m in denial.

I know my pen’s true self when it’s just the two of us, she’s the most insane and frightening I know. She rides with the clouds, no matter how dark, and I don’t always get what she says and why. Cause she carries a glass filled over the top, can’t help but repeat herself to herself, and would write in all caps like a slop...

Well she can say a ton of words that are otherwise numb, and she can loudly scream without any sound. But whenever she stops and falters, I’d either hear the buzzing of words getting tangled up, or the crushing deep vacuum of outer space. And I’d remember that me and my pen are the same, my reflection's right here on the page.

And then I always have to clean up her mess so you can read it. And it does seem to take a while longer, but it’s disappointing how it’ll never turn out the way I want it to be. There’s still a million other words that you just cannot see... I cannot put two different sentences on top of each other if they don’t make sense anywhere else, and then there are some things that don’t fit anywhere at all.

And so I spend too much time trying to think of how to fill in the holes, so you don’t fall through, but I cannot fill in every one of them...

So I’d really love if I could just write out of the lines and 
to be able to see those invisible words in the air and 
to never again find myself saying words that taste like metal.

Especially during times like this when I’m terrified you’d miss something important.