The alternative is always poetry and everybody knows it.
I read a poem a few years back, almost ten now, back when it was all still poetry. It said “the brave never write poetry, they die and then they are dead”, and I loved it because how fucking facile, how fucking empty to just write and hope that it’s something, and then it is something for someone at some point, but that’s the nature of everything, and everything doesn’t feel great when someone thinks anything of it.
now that everything is prose,
how poetry looks much different.
Prose is the alarm at 7:20, getting up and fucking around until 7:50, showering until 8, walking the dog and picking up his shit, and fixing hair, and maybe a squirt of that scented oil that, like everything else, loses its magic by lunch time.
Prose is lunchtime with the same people, or maybe the others went out or had a business trip so lunch today is sitting in the corner, tray full, browsing stocks, or browsing your feed, or maybe just browsing nothing but still swiping so as not to feel lonely and maybe even look productive!
Prose is getting home and having a crisis about what to consume, and in the end it’s the same as yesterday because otherwise there would be no time to do what? Recover? Certainly nothing poetic, unless it’s a special day or something like that.
Poetry is for the brave, actually.
Poetry is for those who are not afraid of putting themselves out there, beyond the boundaries of where they’re supposed to be, and while they’re out there maybe they’re not happy but they’re out there and it’s more than prose can say, sitting propped up on the bed drenched in light from the tv playing that thing that a radical friend suggested and holy shit wouldn’t a revolution be great?
but that would be poetry
and poetry is only for the brave.