Prose Garden

This is not poetry.

Poetry has a rhythm buried at its core Like a heart beat. Prose does not.

This is not poetry.

This is prose. This is a prose garden. Where the buds are words that bloom, in time, into flowers of sentances and beds of paragraphs.

This is a story.

This is my story. This might be your story. If you see yourself in it, then it is yours. Every story that I write might be yours.

This is the story of why I need to create.

This is not poetry.

I am made up of seeds. Seeds as countless as the stars in the night sky. Seeds as numerous as cliches.

Too many seeds for one mind to contain. The more they grow, the more room they take. Roots burrow deep into all the corners of my mind. Stems reach for freedem. The only way to get the space back is to transplant them. So I dig them up, roots and all, with care and love and give them a new home.

It might be an excisement, save that I do it with love for these growing word plants. Save that I do not toss them away. Some, I keep in my own secret garden, and some I send out into the world, where the can cross pollinate with other stories and cause seeds to start to grow in other minds.

My prose garden is beautiful. Sometimes it has thorns, though. Words can hurt.

But I write in order to save my sanity. And I write to save my growing little plants from dying an unnourished, overcrowded death. I write for the sake of the stories, and for the sake of myself and maybe for the sake of the world, who needs more gardens.

This is my garden of proses.

And this is not poetry.

(Okay, okay, a little bit of explaining. This is a piece I wrote for my thirty day writing challenge. We had to create “visionary art”. I’m not sure this is visionary, but it does break all sorts of rules. It’s a sort of freeform writing around the idea of telling the story of why I write.)

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