I am a writer. I guess I could say I've always been. The very first story I wrote was called The Dance; I must have been somewhere between nine and eleven years old at the time.
The poetry came later; I only discovered my love for it after the tedious years of studying The Dragon Book of Verse with its multiple themes and the nauseating hours spent trying to figure out why I was meant to study it at all.
I was sixteen years old when I feel in love with Wilfred Owen's poetry. Somehow it spoke to me. Images of blown-up bodies and mental cases do not connote much with long-haired girls wearing pretty skirts and in love with nail polish. Yet those pararhymes - half-rhymes if you will - spoke to the realist in me as nothing else ever had, awakening a sense of beauty in the mundane and sensible that finally could be expressed in accurate terms.
Prose can say a lot of things we wouldn't dare to speak. Yet it is limited in its ability to tackle any subject as accurately as poetry does. Moreover, poetry allows for playing around with words to help clear the mind of the jumble of thoughts and imagery that freely roam the otherwise restricted and rigid confines of the brain. Maybe that's why we are told we should lead with the heart but follow with the mind. For sensibility does need to somehow prevail even in the life of an artist, but only once the heart and so the poetry has first had its say.
I should admit, I don't just write whole poems. At times, I write a few simple lines to describe just about anything, real and surreal, especially that which will torture the mind if left unsaid. Because that's what poetry is really there for now, isn't it?