Poetry and Prose

apparently I don't blog anymore.

I guess writing just doesn't cut it anymore. Just passing the buck. It's lost the cathartic feeling that kept me alive for a year. My journals are empty. Random pieces of paper I find in my car or desk are more likely to have monetary calculations written on them than pieces of poetry.

Poetry seems to have receded. Prose, I hear, is supposed to be more total in scope. Poetry captures an instant brilliantly, but prose can capture a lifetime. The obvious choice for a life, then, would be to live it out in beautifully constructed prose. In a prose that captures life in its entirety, in its raw, real, and ridiculous moments. One by one, accumulating a massive database as time ticks by.

Poetry is short lived. Its lines of verse burst off the page and tear the heart, but eventually even the poet puts down his pen and goes about living his life. Poetry is where emotion lives. Poetry is where passion lives. Poetry is where the world, too raw to be contained, explodes in one large mushroom cloud of fire, reigning down ash on all who happen to be near the blast.

But then life goes on. The dust settles, and everyone is left dealing with the fallout of the fire of passion. And so prose is born and lives and lives and lives and lives-- until.

One meant to live their life in poetry finds this prose a little unsettling.