"Not Poetry?"

Would I call this poetry? Should I call it so? Or is it a different medium entirely? Poetic prose? Homemade thoughts packaged in a film of meandering adjectives and the occasional cellophane metaphor?

Poetry is something that should be consumed slowly, intentionally, mindfully and thus it is written with care and precision as if it were a canoe effortlessly gliding across a clear lake. It moves leisurely, taking in its surroundings with a noted sense of pleasure, but its path is straight and true, its message is clear. 

I feel as if I captain a boat with a missing oar, so that with each word uttered I begin to spin around faster and faster, encircling a thought but never truly getting to the crux of it. What is my message? My clear direction? Often my words get in the way of what I truly mean to say.

I am impatient with my consumption and greedily scarf down bowl after bowl of prose until I feel sick with thoughts, regurgitated before I have the chance to digest their meanings, 

Though it's impossible to be a glutton for the wisdom of poetry. Once you fill a cup to the brim it is impossible to cram more liquid inside of it without it spilling out from every direction. Its richness demands intentionality and patience, the weathering of urges.

What this is, is admittedly not that, but despite its vague categorization, I continue to write. Because those who like me consume with fervor to make sense of their emotions are in search of a respite within the margins, clauses they can crawl under as blankets or brandish as swords. They want to feel. Even if that feeling is one of rowing a boat to nowhere.

So the question is, what do I want this to be? Poetry, prose, elegance, relatability, a note hastily scrawled on a napkin or an installation piece? Or perhaps something in between?