in the early days

of my fourteenth year

it occurred to me

that i had never broken a bone

that i was writing just to fill the page

that i was living just to pass the time

boys were boys

in cotton shorts

and girls were goddesses

i never dared to think about

death was a mile away

even when i played with fire-

sticking my hands in flames just to see

how long i could last

before i burned-

sometimes it disappointed me

but sometimes i was relieved

born and bred

a cradle catholic,

i had always

believed in god-

not enough to want to pray,

but just enough not to

cause a scene

every wednesday

i would go to church

and every wednesday

i would feel nothing at all

as a child

sitting in sunday school,

i learned

it is hard to turn nothing

into something

yet i was told

he built the world

with his own two hands,

crafting the moon and sun

and all the stars

out of his nailbeds

i was told

it took six days

to create the earth,

and the seventh day

was left for us to believe it

but it's hard to believe in god

when you don't even believe in yourself

and it's hard to love a god

that might not love you

for who you are

as i grew

i tried praying

with my clammy hands pressed together

and my sweaty knees on the floor

but i did not get a miracle

nor a saving grace

faith did not clog my pores

my veins did not flood with his mercy

so i assumed

a wreck like me could not be saved

in the early february

of my seventeenth year,

i was patted down

and searched

and stripped of my belongings-

my dignity

my pride

even my goddamn sweatshirt-

as i was entered into the inpatient ward

in the hospital,

the girl hooked on meth and heroin

told me

that life was bullshit-

"there ain't no god,"

she said

through the sores around

her mouth-

i began to believe her

so i stood beside her

and stood for nothing

secretly i spent days concocting "what ifs"

hoping to find the right hypothesis

but i could always disprove them

with this proof-

i had not gotten my miracle-

therefore,

god had not gotten his green card

as spring bloomed into summer

i gave my faith to girls

with red lipstick

and auburn hair

and i experienced heaven

when i kissed them-

it felt so good to sin

and i did not want to be redeemed

it became harder to hide

than be myself

so i crawled out of the rose bushes

and declared my being

while denying god's-

and not a single soul told me to go

in late june

of my seventeenth year,

it occurred to me

that i'd broken my mind

but it was healing

that i was writing

because i was breathing

that i was passing time

because i wanted to

I could cuss

And I could scream

But it wouldn't give the storms

I consider my thoughts

Any justice

'Cause lightning's raging

And thunder is brewing

The rain is pouring

And I'm drowning

All right, Prosers. Here is the moment for which you’ve all been waiting.

As you know, alongside our Partners, creating challenges is our responsibility. So, to further drive the evolution of Prose, we’ll be launching a new Kindle challenge each month. For May, we challenged the community to write 500 words about death.

Of the 66 submissions only the fiercest, most powerful pieces were chosen. We made selections based on several factors: grammatical soundness, originality, and attention to detail.

In total, there were 40 pieces of poetry and prose that made the cut.

Before we reveal them, we’d like to direct your attention to the newest Kindle challenge: theprose.com/challenge/2317.

For those of you that are not featured in Volume 1, now’s your chance to land a spot in Volume 2. Here are a few suggestions for you, based upon our experience with the first round:

1) Give your piece a title.

2) Double (and triple) check your spelling and grammar before hitting “publish.” This should include the use of appropriate formatting (paragraphs, indentations, quotations, etc.).

3) Avoid extraneous language for purposes of meeting or exceeding the word limit. The piece itself must be a minimum of 500 words. You may choose to provide commentary, such as author’s notes or signatures, but they will not be included in the final publication.

4) Any content that has been previously published outside of Prose, in part or in full, including excerpts, cannot be included in the final publication due to Amazon publishing restrictions.

To read the e-book you must download it from Amazon. You’ll notice that it costs a whopping $0.99.

Our intention was for this publication to be FREE, but Kindle Direct Publishing requires a minimum price. With that in mind, we want to make a fervent promise to the entire community:

All royalties collected will be used to create and publish more books for you, by you.

We would also like to reiterate that, as Prosers, you retain 100% of your original copyright. By agreeing to our Terms of Use (theprose.com/p/legal/terms), you agree to give Prose a permanent and exclusive sub-license to your work, but that’s legalese.

In layman’s terms, we have permission to share your work on our social media and promotional materials.

That allows us to show the world just how talented you are, which is why we’re here.

To download the e-book, visit:

(For Prosers in the US)

http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00YNDY75O?*Version*=1&*entries*=0

(For Prosers in Canada)

http://www.amazon.ca/dp/B00YNDY75O/ref=cm_sw_r_tw_ask_vP5QJ.1VCDA9W

(For Prosers in the UK)

http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B00YNDY75O?*Version*=1&*entries*=0

(For Prosers in Australia)

http://www.amazon.com.au/gp/product/B00YNDY75O?*Version*=1&*entries*=0

You’re also encouraged to read all of the entries by visiting www.theprose.com/2230.

We would like to thank everyone that participated for their hard work. The Prose Anthologies are dedicated to this community, which includes each and every one of you.

you think this is poetry?

you're delusional.

this isn't even a sentence

i'm not good at turning

bruises into beauty.

i'm not good at

anything at all.

i can't write a coherent

motherfucking stanza

and i sure as hell can't finish one.

i'm not even good at

spilling my guts.

you could ask me to

puke on the page

and i would choke on

my own spit.

i'm illiterate.

as of right now,

my last words would be

a long-winded string of "fuck-you"s,

the kind you hear in the alley

as a theme song

to the street fight between

dumbass #1 and

drunk bastard #2-

nothing special,

but really something.

maybe it's like that,

maybe i'm best

when i'm raw.

hell, maybe i sound

best with your hands

wrapped around my throat.

is it better to lose your voice from screaming

or would you prefer to never speak at all?

I think my favorite words are, "another cup of coffee." In the morning, golden and new, sharpened by a dark roast. Noon, afternoon, evening. Even a night where you are dedicated enough to make more coffee. It is a sleepless night, but one with that récompense, that iohnend that you know it will be a good night, not matter how bad it is.

she told me

to stop writing about her,

so this is not a poem

about a girl

who has a freckle

on the tip of her nose

and eyes that shine

brighter than stars.

this is not about

how i fell asleep on her

at two p.m.

that sunday afternoon-

nor is it about

how peaceful i felt

resting my head on her chest.

and this is definitely not a poem about how holding her hand

made me feel like atlas-

i was intertwining my fingers

with galaxies

and tracing universes

with my thumb.

no,

this is not a poem about any of that.

but if this was

a poem about her,

i would write about how

she closed her eyes

and looked towards the sky

whenever i kissed her neck.

i would mention how gorgeous

she looked from upside-down

when i was resting

my head on her thighs.

god,

if this was a poem about her,

i would carry on for hours

until my veins ran out of ink

or my hands cramped from

writing far too long.

but she told me to stop writing about her,

so i guess she'll be thankful

this isn't a poem about her.

When writing good poetry, please, consider the following:

•Never let poetry scare you because it is all about rhymes.

—This is not true poetry uses free verse as well; let your poetry be as free as your ideas and pen.

•Try to avoid cliches. Cliches such as roses are red and violets are blue are so overused.

— They are unhealthy to any poet just as sugar in our diets; let your poetry be about subjects no one has ever talked about or describe something as people have not seen it yet.

•Let your poetry have a heart.

—Good poetry always, ALWAYS, has to have heart and passion. Let your heart be the guide and your brain the writer.

•Make your poetry be long and fruitful.

—Always try to set a goal to yourself about how far you are going to write. Make this a habit, and you'll find yourself writing essays about love and the human condition. If your poems are meant to be short please re-read the previous suggestion.

•Don't know what to write?

—Write about any moment, any feeling, rain, clouds, the girl or boy sitting next to you, their actions, your crush, the beauty of someone, beauty itself, the universe, your vision of the world. Poetry is about anything not just lovers and love.

•Listen to music when planning to write.

—When writing something new, listen to soothing music. I listen to Bear's Den, Deep Forest, Classical music, etc.

•When writing good poetry it doesn't have to be in a poem's format; it can be a paragraph or just as this format, a poem about how to write good poetry.

•Be yourself, get inspired by others.

DA 2015