I wrote this when I was overwhelmed with classes and putting cigarettes to rest. I was going through a lot emotionally and I was having a mood because didn’t want to write a prose poem. My big-hearted cousin came to the rescue and helped me to write this. After the poem was completed I decided to write my thoughts and emotions in so I would continue to remember what was on my mind at the time. Not to mention at this point in my life I regretted being in that English class as I wrestled with myself as well as the on demand writing which is required in most English classes. A teaching technique that I truly dislike now as much as I always have. 

I looked it over removed all of those damn commas’ and this is the edited version.

Diana Wyatt
English 217
Prose Poem

A Prose poem you say? The first few weeks after quitting smoking are usually the most difficult. Now that is something I can say I have never written before. awful gloomy weather as I gaze outside, hate hate hate it with a passion. Furthermore, it appears to me after extensive research  nicotine stains everything brown this type of poem is one long run-on sentence or not and more like a short story if you will without rhyme or reason or title for that matter. Withdrawal in the First Two Weeks. A stream of thought and one I might add which I am not absolutely sure if I can successfully achieve at the moment. A smoke is what I want, a cigarette is what I desperately need to fill this void inside of me. As much as I love literature in all its forms as much as I love to learn and as much as I strive for high marks in this class or any other this particular assignment, this Prose poem assignment promotes doubt deep within me. Nicotine an addictive drug found in tobacco creates a chemical dependency. Where passion and creativity is usually in abundance I  my cigarette my friend  feel a cold and dark void instead, a chamber of hopelessness. cramps and nausea. If only I could somehow find a way to reignite my creativity rather than stare at a blank piece of paper pencil in hand with nothing but a blank piece of paper staring me dead in the face. Feelings of being an infant, temper tantrums, intense needs, feelings of dependency, a state of near paralysis, insomnia, mental confusion, vagueness, irritability, anxiety. I need to begin to move forward gaining momentum Tingling in the hands in the Prose frame of mind and maybe if I’m lucky  feet sweating I will succeed in completing my assignment satisfying my instructor and myself as I write on reflecting my thoughts on this dilemma, cigarettes have always been my friend, they have always been there with me through thick and thin I realize out of all the confusion negativity and frustration, a Prose poem has been born but actually not a prose poem but just simply prose. Cold symptoms as the lungs begin to clear all I really had to do was write, just write. Feeling light headed and relieved of stress, the stinging of nicotine in the mouth the smell of death proliferates.


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