Prose

Buried in the AppStore in a dusty, cobwebbed state,

Lies a disregarded App that people like to overrate,

Blowing off the dust and holding it up by the light,

Reveals a proper treasure so you take it for the night.

Getting home you dust it off and load it to your phone,

It slowly flickers into life as you watch all alone,

The home screen bids you welcome as you enter in your name,

And after a few moments you're within a new domain.

You scratch your head, confused at what the hell you have to do,

Instinctively you sense that Prose just wants to warm to you,

You've never been a writer so you type a little ode,

Then leave it as you head off to the pub that's down the road.

You've had a real good night so head back home to go to bed,

You lock the door, turn out the lights, and rest your weary head,

It's way gone midnight and your bed is warm and comfy-snug,

When suddenly a noise begins to sound and wakes you up.

You pour a cup of tea and think of heading back to bed,

And there it goes again, perhaps it's just within your head!

Suddenly you notice that it's coming from your phone,

You pick it up and thumb the 'P' that's sitting on its own,

Reflected in your eye you see some people like your ode,

And someone left a message "Welcome, now you're on our road".

You answer "Thank you so much but it wasn't very good".

And pour a cup of coffee as you slip into the mood,

And flick through all it's functions as familiarity hits,

And pour another coffee as your mind slips into it.

The minutes slip away as you begin to feel a little sore,

Then take a break and grab a sandwich hankering for more,

You pen a little anecdote and write a funny joke,

And soon you realise this app is packing quite a poke.

Before you realise it you are having quite a ball,

And pour another coffee and compose a little more,

It's handy when you figure out you never have to save,

The deeper that you delve ensures you have become a slave.

And suddenly it hits you that your battery hasn't died,

Yet you've been deep in Prose and that the time is half past five,

But it's okay, it's Saturday and your weekend's free as hell,

And chilling out with Prose and all it's guys are heaven sent.

Eventually you fall asleep with poems in the air,

The grin upon your face tells us that you no longer care,

The words are coming easier as you softly start to snore,

So rest awhile dear author in the morning you'll write more.