Criticize my so called prose like poetry and can you please give some advices?

It's those wee hours.I stroll around a faintly lit street, cannot stress enough the darkening dimness,making its presence be felt along the walk.The gutsiness of the territory,conveyed shiver to the bones.The boulevard was quiet dull, filthy full of nothing,but a deserted queue of roadster.I even wrote Blues in lines on the window of the chronicled ride though my fingers were numbing yet life anxious.I often do that like a bystander would do.As I managed to finally settle my tacky-self.I started taking walks again.I felt it.The stranger, chased me again.I took out my earphones.Plugged them into my earsto not lean my attention,to the lurid steps I heard.It was cacophonic, even she heard it.The heartbeats, they were loosing the musicality.The street lamp,sparked out, leaving no shimmer. It was only the dark. I cannot even consider a companion. But the woman won't stop. The footsteps were in full-tilt,they wanted to catch my walking. The glaring gazes of the woman,secured with redlike a sharp bolt of lightning. The heavy rain poured out,bringing thunder of regret. The rumbling,defeated my desire to escape. The labyrinth, trapped me. I have nowhere to go. The woman was in small grip of me. I endeavored to run fleetly I faltered and stumbled but she kept a hold of me.I looked upward. It's despondent I am seeing. Pain written across her face. Stabbed me inch by inch leaving vast wounds that sent me to the grave .