Intentional Prose.

I believe my mind tends to create poems all on it's own - a sort of musicality connects my thoughts without any sort of consideration to punctuality, punctuation, flowing transitional phrases, efficient vocabulary or correct grammar. Perhaps it is a good thing, but on occasion I believe I am cursed. Constructing a paragraph is tedious, monotonous. I desire to count syllables, create strong metaphors, add accents where tradition would require otherwise. How am I to write an application paper for lit. theory or a book review on "Love in the Time of Cholera", when my mind refuses to release me from the shackles of iambic pentameter. I am hidden on the third floor of the library, behind the stacks of "The Writer" periodicals dating all the way back to December of 1957, attempting to remove all inspiration, rhymed couplets, similes, fluidity and musicality from my immediate aura. I am regretful of pursuing a higher education on a night such as this. How I long to be a starving artist, with only a pen and scraps of newspaper to scribble down my poetic revelations. But, here I am subjected to the confines of assignments lacking the sweet breath of fresh creativity. This evening, I am chaining my pen to the paper and leading my thoughts at gunpoint to the flat and barren wasteland of required texts.
Introduction. Body. Conclusion. Ready. Set. Go.