There is no “why” to my writing. I have always written, but only recently have I found poetry. Or, more accurately, poetry found me. I rarely deliberately sit down to write. When I do I’m rarely satisfied with what I’ve done. Some days I can’t think without rhyming- most of my poetry does, because that’s how it starts. When that certain feeling hits, the one that demands my attention, if I don’t make a note of some kind, it will leave me. My career has been technical in nature, and most of my writing has been highly structured. I’ve written a bit for newspapers and magazines, and had a stint as a magazine editor. None of that prepared me for poetry! It is a mystery of vastness, uncontrollable, revealing my thoughts in a way I never expected. When the poem and I finish, I am perspiring and mentally high in a unique way. Trembling a bit. I am an addict, and a whore. I want more, and more. Why? I have no idea, and I don’t care. I’m in love.