If you can write old school prose, when I say old school, I mean the defining things of prose, that being an unstructured piece of literary art that prescribes the right sort of medicine for the right kind of feeling.
If you don't know what prose is here are two of my favorite Examples. They are published and thusly copyrighted.
We Are Violent
We are violent:
Broken homes, broken limbs, broken into splinters that slipped into the shadows, hidden. We are from nothing, but stole from everything, words like serpents that convince and coerce; even the most in faith. Shoving spikes through the wrists, twisting like a pythons grip. Weary it is, describe the color of blood for I can tell you its very scent;
We are violent:
Shifters of shapes, shifters of words, shifters of plans - sinking thoughts into the very embryo you held as busker of religion. We take the form of your loved we can shift time and thought, for now we are and then we're naught. Shifting through and breaking centers, epidemic-cataclysm burrowing further into your lament;
We are violent:
Take your thoughts, take your words, take your very core for now this is how we deserve for telling truths. You are falsehood we are saint, but it isn't your blood we drink. It is those you think are that is loved. Count the number for the number is real, but we are cold as steel. Breath quick for it comes quick, speak just and make it swift. Let us take you to the light, think us now as the: heaven sent.
We are violent.
I take token, reading through the pages: wouldn't it be so much more real to feel papyrus beginning to crumble and die in the molecular acids in my hands. Trust aestheticism to view from a sandy scroll that looked like tea had befallen it only ages ago. Calligraphy from quill and ink, serpents' tidal tongue tailed into looping liaisons of mystery and mirth that only assailed the alphabet into a proxy of filtered thoughts - this is what we search. We come here for the birth of brilliance and brash.
This is our art, so never take a breath and never blink. For you may miss what I now think. Take my hand if you are brave; let us take this to the escalade. You need little of educated talent, just that of inherent astral performance, to imbalance the center and focus the peripherals.
The Seasons Without
The seasons soften up the slopes:
As they decay and deter the delimiter of décor.
Bringing bangs of botany or banishing them in bane.
Flowers press forward, parading fast past floral presence.
Boughs bend, beckoning. Earth calls eluding caste existence.
They feel faulty; fasting feast for grief affliction; as the seasons soften.
As they harden and hallow to hastened the hearth of earth.
Torrents tangle tottering treads of tortured take.
Though in through it thusly incarnates.
Shadows slay, sundering. Seasons fade sauntering folded shades.
Ease the ebb; exit endocrine; enter existence - epiphany.
Blurring blasts befuddle filled flanks in intricate intraludes.
Torrents toss, reality racked, seasons sap - silent sequences.
Bending in abate hollow trenches.
Decline, decrease, deafen, deaden, decay, decadent - worlds fall.
Reality retrieves rebuked requiem in rationalization.
Acres ascend from ascension - altitudes assimilating accents.
Against the gates guarding the garnishing.
Seasons falter, shields frail.
Boughs break, basking in brittle brandishing.
The sun sings summons secluded to secrets.
No rise - No fall.
Its sun is gone.
Equinox end attritions.
Now the seasons toss without its sun.
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