All along they’d say
that prose and words were nothing but broken lines
pieces in disarray the author wants to somehow fix
yet finds himself unable to.
They’d contemplate about a certain word’s rhyme to not break the rhythm of the song.
They desperately want to be poetic, some say.
But there, that night a brown- eyed girl sat and listened
to their ballads, fact and untrue in a way,
and she realized that prose is in just being… you.
She sat there, wide-eyed and in awe
at the amount of words they say in under a minute
and the amount of emotion they pour with it.
There in that dimly lit place, beside and with people – enthusiasts
she uttered ooh’s and awww’s just like they did.
The speakers’ truth, some of them, a lot like hers.
There was where she felt at ease.
As if time had no hold on her and it suddenly stopped.
She was focused and the stories echoed through the tea house’s vents,
she was there and it was all that mattered for the time being.
She got to hear people tell their stories,
in rhyme, in song, in whatever way they saw fit.
Just as long as it was an original skit.
Theme? Living, loving, leaving.
The girl had her own,
but was too shy to verbalize; afraid that no applause might come.
Nevertheless, she had an awesome night.
She sat there, on that dimly lit tea house that night
and she heard their prose
and she felt alright
as if she found her home and community
the very same ones who share the love for prose, rhyme, poetry
They say it has not thrived.
They say it has gone extinct.
And they say it’s dead.
No. Pay attention. We are here.