Investigation

Prose is poetry. Poet prose. I suppose it doesn't have to be written with a new line to define where the rhyme hits and misses. Have we been missing the point of creation? Let's start an investigation, see how many brains I bother with my obstination. Let's everybody look at your fingernails, dirty nails, notice they're always dirty nails, my face is pale, I can't clean them out. The ground is wet, the sky is dry, I wonder why my alibi is never enough to me to excuse why I'm so busy. I've got dirty laund-er-y. Piling high, that's why the sky is dry, a drought of joy, a pout of ploys, and sorry boys if I am weak.
No, I don't follow form or rule when I create but I debate whether I could date someone who maybe would relate to how I hate being stuck in one place with one name where the rules of the game will always change too much. Too much poetry just might be slowing me, slowing the owing I have gathered from the hearts I've stolen kindness from. I wanna return it, make it pretty, put a bow on it, send it in a box with glitter and hearts to unbitter the tarts I left on their tongues. Is this a song or spoken word? So many soap operas make reality blurred. Put another rhythm to my words, I'm sure it can fit. Make it yours and tarnish mine, it's fine with me. That's all I'll be in the end, another feeder feeding you with something needed and I'll take your praise for payment. That's fair, where's fair if it's not there, right?
Funny how I'm feeling like forever is so lonely but if only I knew where home is or if only I just made it where I stand. Funny how I think I'm the only one thinking things on rings of chimes but around the world are hearts who rhyme with mine in sorrow. Poetry borrowed. Sympathy stolen. Stealing tomorrow's what the Grinch might do. Pinch my new eyes so opening them will shed some light on the dusty corners of my mind. I make these strange demands to a stranger in my poetry, they're not real, all in my head while I'm in bed trying to transition to reality. I've never had an out-of-body experience, out-of-body is fear in it's most innocent face. Don't know what I'm saying right now, it's poetry somehow, come now with me stranger. I'm Peter Pan, I guess, but don't look so depressed that I'm not young anymore. I'm a bore, but I'll explore the depth of words versus action till the end. Round the bend, riverbend, bend the wind to work for me. At least I can still write poetry.