Can a bit of prose inspire a poem from you?

Question

Can a bit of prose inspire a poem from you?

Answer

ProsebrNOUN brbr. Ordinary speech or writing, without metrical structure. br. Commonplace expression or quality. brbrThe boys head swelled, causing him to curse the name of God over and over as he lay on the couch, frozen with the terror of regret. His mother had wanted him and had been calling from the bottom of the basement steps for what must have been hours. As he lay sleeping, the pains of constant teasing quelled with each silent breath. His father was teaching him how to fight, how to solve the problems at school on his own. How to hurt the people that hurt him. His mother, the one person in this hateful world that loved him and assured him of goodness every day of his young life, had been screaming his name again and again to no avail. brThe basement was flooding and an entire days woth of laundry was being ruined. Eight hours of work destroyed while a sleeping son lay curled up on the couch, a black haired dog wrapped around him. She must have given up on saving the clothes that had been folded and laid upon a blanket on the cold cement floor of the basement. She had come upstairs to find him. She was a tangle of disgust and anger, her face twisted with the pangs of the day. He was jolted out of sleep by the sound of his name being screamed from three feet away. He started crying, scared and confused. Had someone hurt his mother? Where were they now? She was yelling at him to stop crying, to shut up, get up, shut up shut up shut up. He did, all at once. She was okay. No one had hurt her. The initial anger in her usually warm eyes had turned into pure disgust. She was only upset with him, that was all. The relief he felt lasted only seconds, as she pointed her fingers towards the kitchen, towards the top of the basement stairs, towards the mess he had created while he slept. She explained to him that she had been calling his name, much like his father had called hers over and over and over and over on any whim that suited him, whenever he felt he needed something no matter the consequence to her. She had been calling, begging, imploring him to PLEASE come to her, come and hold the gushing water pipe while she went to shut off the water. She called and called and screamed and begged but he did not come. He slept. He slept to stop the echoes of glass breaking in his head, a shard for each word or sneer hurled from the giant walls of the blood red playground he was forced to go to each and every day of his elementary school life. He woke up to a hurricaine of guilt that waited for him like a starving tiger, a sacrifice for the God he had been cursing. br That night he slept with thoughts of morning already whisping through his head. He wondered what he would wake up to, what he would create out of nothing while he slept. Maybe he would not wake up this time. Maybe the sweet smell of sleep would surround him forever. brbr