you asked, I answered, welcome to insanity with Ver :)

key:

original content will be prefaced with posting date, commentary in bold type, and brand-new responses indicated by today's date

***

5/2/17

(I know, I know, I missed Day 1. But I hate to have things unfinished)

#MondayMadness

I sit and think
Of what there is
To write about myself
My clothes? My hair?
The one-hundred-
one books upon my shelf?

Yes, I counted
Every one
It's not a big shelf, though.
In fact, I'm running
Out of room
For all my books to go.

Oh How Sad

Update: I have a v nice big bookshelf that is rapidly accumulating to beyond its capacity as well

I try to sort them out --
the ones that don't have much appeal
From those that keep me riveted
By all that they reveal.

Well, now we've talked enough
About my books, I think;
And we may hope you've learned in that
A bit of me, a link
To what I am,
And act and feel,
Though it be but a blink;
And now, alas,
'Tis sadly true
I've used up all my ink.

—I think I can safely say I did not know what prose poetry was

cute, lowkey cringe at the hasty structure (lack of?). Okay, honestly high key cringe because my Pretentiousness Detector for le past self is par-ticularly acute and every single darn time I read this one I feel it hard >.>

also, why did I not simply look up prose poetry definition. Just. Why.

Also massive r.i.p. because now I'm about to attempt 100 words of prose poetry after googling it 10 minutes ago. (Really expected something easier to kick the game off xD this is what comes of following your spontaneous impulses, kids)

4/21/21

From the time you are small, it is words.

You argue to yourself, a steady, internal debate, but you are three and the debate whether you should pick your nose.

Your words broke something, but you are five and did not know it was wrong to ask why the girl in your class walked funny.

Your words are whispering, flying, but you are six and they are a scribble of unsteady black ink that tell a story with no plot.

Your words are dancing, sassy, but you are eight and think it is hysterical to pronounce "people" phonetically.

Your words are breaking, a pitter-patter between mind and mouth, but you are twenty-one and not ready to give them up to the cold clamp of anxiety.

Your words are broken, but you cannot let go. Sometimes, they are broken and beautiful.

I'm sorry it's 140 words but I despise cutting and if I take this too seriously I'll never get anywhere so :) yeeeeeeet

(plot twist I can't help taking it seriously and actually spent an hour trying to decide on a format for the stupid thing)