Poetry is expression. It allows you to say things that you would never dare to speak aloud, things that you are sometimes surprised you were thinking at all. Poetry allows the writer to know himself, so that he may discover the extent of his creative imagination and work toward pushing its limitations. Poetry is pain without having to be pain, a medium that can bring isolation and joy together without feeling the need to make excuses for itself. It drains the senses only to fill them with something else entirely, and there is always something else, clawing at the corner of the mind and demanding to be heard.

I write poetry mostly because I don’t have a choice. When that itch, that hunger to transfer my heart onto paper comes, I am completely and utterly enslaved to its will. I do not pretend to understand it, nor do I believe that I ever will, but I love it all the same. Poetry is what gives me voice, although I am just the messenger. The words, they often tell me, like to speak for themselves.

It’s always hard for a writer to hear the question: “what inspired you to write this?” primarily because we often don’t know. Would it be too simple to say that poetry is my inspiration? Too often I don’t see it coming, the onslaught of thoughts barreling through my mind and frantically waiting to be written. But, if I were to put a name to it, I would say that life itself influences and inspires me. The amputee waiting to cross the road at a busy intersection while the rest of the world drives by, the child walking through the isles of a grocery store, tears glistening in her eyes as she follows her inattentive mother – small details that we pass every day but never stop to consider, those are the moments that I take advantage of. Suddenly a word is born, a phrase constructed. And the rest…well, the rest is poetry.


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