Although it's very hard to see,
A poet's soul dwells within me.
In clandestine sensitivity
Lies a need to express how things might be.
I need to fill a blank, white page
With images of love, hope, rage,
Fear, angst, warmth, jealousy and hate,
Emotions, feelings, tricks of fate,
To share those things which cross my mind,
To leave some slice of self behind
When starts my trip on the endless sea.
I seek some immortality.

But, then again -

A love of words in is my heart,
A need to communicate apart
From thoughts of mere longevity,
Or anything to do with me.
The power of thought and the printed word,
To capture the powerful, enhance the absurd,
I think, may be what drives me on
To write the poem, the story, the song.
The real reason now comes to light,
It's simply that - I love to write.