Raised in a barn?

It does not even really matter what color the candle is, the flame is all you can see in the dark.

Hey ladies and gerntlemens. I took my first stab at prose poetry a few days ago and I figured this would be a good place to post it. Oh, and I am done with school now. I just finished my last exam and sold my last book. Ohh, Yeah!

Cause for Concern

I tried to grab a leaf off of a bush and instead my fingers returned with a broken ribbed lizard writing in pain and, surprised by this, I threw it on the ground. I did this and my concern is that I can't find the fountain pen I spent $40 dollars on to write it down. My concern is that my ginger ale is not hot enough. My concern is that in moments I'll be blurred like the faded faces on my neighbors' house blindly staring with blank blinds with no shadows behind them 'cause the blank houses' occupants are all staring at a stark box staring blankly back. Emotionless we stand in unremarkable electrified non-glory. We sit alone with our lonely friends harmonizing with canned laughter and substituting created dialogue for genuine pain and the lizard who had no Idea that I would miss my leaf and, in the dark, crush him with my fingertips lies taking in his last breaths while a thumbnail moon pours out every possible human emotion into lidded cups already full of every impossible human emotion.

Hey, gimme a break, I'm not a poet. Do you think Edgar Allen Poe thought he had to become a poet because his name was only one letter away from it? Poe(t).