Prose

Prose poetry is something that I am still attempting to grasp. These are two attempts I made for my creative writing class. Both very different. Honestly, I like the second one a LOT more. I wrote it once I had finally gotten into the mood to write poetry. The first is basically me rebelling against it :P. Alright well here goes.

It is like…
By Diana Weber

Imagine trying to put a kitten in a bathtub
Its claws like tiny pins
Teeth like a bear trap
Desperate attempts to claim freedom
From the terrifying pool that awaits

Imagine the smell of coffee in the morning
Strong, bold, refreshing
Now try putting that in a box
All the while with the intention of retaining its original persona

This is how it feels to write prose poetry
It is a battle with nature
It is like trying to capture the spirit of the subject
Like catching smoke in your hands

Eternal Sleep
By Diana Weber

If my fingers are cold, I wouldn’t know. They lost their feeling long ago. Their color is pink, this I can see, because it matches the hue of the only remaining light, slashed into pieces by the branches on the trees. The trees themselves look sad, like a peacock robbed of its crowning glory. There is no snow on the ground, not even a promise of moisture from Mother Nature, only the wind, biting and slapping, then rushing away before it can be rebelled against. Yet I am strangely content to stay and experience all the harsh, yet peculiarly striking sensations of this night. While my sense of touch has long since gone to sleep, all other senses seem to be at the height of their interest. They struggle to experience every possible tangible aspect of this night, experiencing it in ways outside of their usual. The way it tastes like silence. The way it sounds like ice. However, as the beauty of this night quickly fades, along with poor touch, they too must go to sleep.