Pro’s, not Prose
Ah, so you write eloquent prose.
Full of idioms and metaphors, I s'pose.
You show but don't tell, oh my!
Yet don't reveal until the end is nigh.
Words you count as you type,
Or write. Are they enough? I hear you gripe.
Flash, Short, Novel, Novella, what-have-you!
Struggle to know where it fits, don't you?
Protagonists, and heroes, and their journeys
You add backstories by the gurneys.
Rising action and climax are fun
But the middle rues if it'll e're be done.
But look at us, the poets and the bards.
Writing verse is its own reward.
There's rhythm, a flow, and there's rhyme
And can be finished, literally, in no time.
Just so we can nail the last one
We, as rhymers, are not yet done
For we can also write it as prose
Now that should rub it in your nose.
Warm baths and quiet nights
And so I stuck my fingers betwixt my eyes, in the area where the nose’s bridge ends and the eye begins. The pitter patter of the shower as it hit my skin lulled me to a familiar feeling of solitude, and presence within the mind. The water jumped from my vessel every which way as I rubbed the droplets out of my eyes. My body sagged with comfortable tiredness, as the water slowly rose in the tub, blanketing me as it went.
