Prose Poem

There is nothing intelligent to say about this. They say
it’s just another phase you’ll grow out of.

Well, I’m waiting.

You think you know what it feels like to have been hurt
until you are hurt again. That agonizing ache in your chest,
that inward pull—no, the word pull does not come close
to doing justice—that inward drag, simply refuses to cease.
Picture an adolescent black hole: inescapable, unstoppable,
and so damn out of control. This is the kind of damage
that makes you want to tear yourself apart from the inside
out; the kind that pushes you to gnaw on your knuckles until
raw is a thing of the past. Heartache doesn’t mean a thing
until you’ve experienced it first-hand.

I quite enjoy writing in prose form; I feel like it's the one poetic form that gives the writer the most creativity. With prose, there are essentially no limitations to stifle the imagination: no feet or meter requirements like sonnets, no requisite for a rhyme scheme at all. Most importantly, there is no need to search for that synonym to replace the perfect word, that synonym that is only necessary due to the constraints of a poetic form. In essence, prose form gives you complete control.

I've also noticed that with prose poem, it is much easier to tell a story. Perhaps something about the ease of writing in this form--ease that comes with freedom--allows the writer to express a plot easier, whereas in other poetic forms, I feel the tendency for description and analysis rather than ideas.