Because I can't really tell you what it is, other than "not 'prose'", which is defining something in negative relation to another thing equally vague.
Like, I can tell you a million of the conventions for the process of making it, but if you sat me down at a desk across from you and told me to define it clearly and what compels me to make poetry when and the way I do, I would panicked-dog-scramble for the nearest exit. There is something abstruse and ephemeral about it I cannot grasp, which does not stop me from making it and appreciating it.
Also, I do not "get" poetry. No one has ever written a poem for or about me to my knowledge. It's not like I don't know poets or artists, but I've never been a subject. Honestly I rarely get gifts of that nature at all any more. Part of it is having both my partners living with me and neither of them being poetically inclined, gifts tend to be in person and physical or "physical". Idk.
This is Microblogvember! We're going off of @NoelBWrites's Microblogvember prompt list!
Poetry is simply put language in motion,
The movement from word to word and their speed,
The words on the page imply the pace of their commotion,
Implying a tempo you see
Rhyming is common
For historical reasons, and the appeal is evident to me.
A persistent trope
Across countless seasons, but shouldn't be limited to these.
Poetry can be a song
floating along
that's not wrong
But too much of that and it goes on to long
Poetry is a rhythm
It speaks the way my heart beats
All at once, never ending, a thousand thumps against an aching chest as the white closes around my vision and I feel myself fading from the pressure and noise
Fingers tearing into my ribcage and splitting it apart as the oncoming inevitability of death races towards me too fast to take a breath as my everything is snuffed from existence in my throat
And sometimes
It's quiet
Late night on the couch
Head in your chest
Slow
Steady
In the moment
Feeling each thump gently against my sternum
Yours
and
Mine
One
Poetry
is
form
as
function
A L O S T L O V E O F M I N E
a f p i a r i m p i o n o v
n a m w d t p e n m s t e
g c e l e a t n a e e h r
u e e r l i n l n c i y
a s i n e i t u n t
g s t e s t a r g h
e n y s s y r i i
e s y t n
s y g
s
Even without words
InscribedOnPaper/EtchedInStone\CarriedOnTheWind
Poetry is how my mind
Weaves a tapestry inside
Out of the silken threads
Of loving
You
I have never been so happy to be proved wrong, and also heck heckheck ; w ;
(Also xe's right, it's better viewed on desktop)