This is a more recent one that I wrote. It's been a few weeks since I wrote it. Sadly, I seem to only write poetry when I'm taking creative writing classes. Hopefully that'll change. Anyway, this is a prose poem. It's basically written out like normal writing, but it has a sort of rhythm and play on word sounds that kind of distinguish it from really just being purely prose. If you don't have the rhythm, that's okay. I just hope you enjoy the word play and that the poem inspires some sort of feeling or thought.

Mad Happy

If, for every word that I spoke I stole a tear from you, I wonder: would I really stop speaking? Once I
might have said what the hell are you asking that for? I might have said such and such to tear you down
for the pleasure not unlike being on the giving side of a trigger.

The ticking sound of the clock’s second hand, impatient and keeping time; I heard on the news the other
day about a U.S. soldier firing on his own men; 13 dead, 40 wounded. Everyone wonders and regrets as
one might regret ignoring a burning cigarette, left to its own devices on the dry, wooden bookshelf.

A crazy man, they say. Unconfirmed reports. I look up at my dad eating his red soup, and wonder sadly
to my new self, ‘Ah, the insane pleasure of being on the giving side.’