Formatting Poetry

For several months now, I have been experimenting with poetry. My method so far has been fairly simple. When the mood strikes me, I free write in the notebook I always carry with me. I give it a few days, trying not to reflect on what I’ve written till I have a bit of distance. Then, looking back, I’m able to pick out which parts I like and which parts I can scrap. 

Once I have pared down the writing, I type it up, officially transforming it into a poem. However, lately I have been a little disappointed with how these poems are looking in a traditional form. So this time, I tried writing it up as a block of text. I feel like it fits better with the prose-poetry which I tend to gravitate to. 

Below are both versions, and I would be very curious to hear what you think about the two formats. Is one more effective than the other? Do you have a preference? I look forward to hearing comments and critiques!

The Mayor’s Arm Candy

What is it about leaves turning yellow that makes me want to write a poem? Like counting your tattoos. Today not one person said thank you. I’m a girl among friends. I don’t know his intentions but I know my own. I want to read your words like I want to share your air. Can you lick the gold from my tongue? I know you prefer whiskey but the gold is hot and sweet going down. It cut my throat. The inside. The dark wet inside is lined and cut up with gold. The same color as your sheets. The same notes as my typewriter. I want to hear those keys clack. But I know they’ve been lonely since you met me. Since I met you it’s been nothing but blue skies and downpours. Did you do that? Did you make that rain? This heart? These hands? I want them back. I am their rightful owner. Unnaturally far, separated by five states. I drive through those states, like blood in the veins, making my way back to the heart. 

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The Mayor’s Arm Candy

What is it about leaves turning yellow that makes me want to write a poem?

Like counting your tattoos.

Today not one person said thank you.

I’m a girl among friends.

I don’t know his intentions but I know my own.

I want to read your words like I want to share your air.

Can you lick the gold from my tongue?

I know you prefer whiskey but the gold is hot and sweet going down.

It cut my throat

The inside.

The dark wet inside is lined and cut up with gold.

The same color as your sheets.

The same notes as my typewriter.

I want to hear those keys clack

But I know they’ve been lonely since you met me.

Since I met you it’s been nothing but blue skies and downpours.

Did you do that?

Did you make that rain? This heart? These hands?

I want them back.

I am their rightful owner

Unnaturally far

Separated by five states.

I drive through those states, like blood in the veins,

Making my way back to the heart. 

 

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