For me, writing is akin to breathing—
an act without which I could not endure.
I devote myself chiefly to verse: sonnets, haiku, tanka, limerick,
and, most fondly, the unbound freedom of free verse.
Lacking innate talent, I labor to compose lines that rhyme,
to weave rhythm and employ the subtler arts of poetry.
Assonance and consonance elude my grasp;
imagery and metaphor—hallmarks of mastery—evade me still.
Yet I write, for it grants solace and quiet joy.
I experiment with essays and stories,
but it is in poetry that my truest aspiration dwells.
To conquer difficulty is to taste the richest satisfaction.
Thus, I ascend the mountain of verse, learning each fragile rope.
Patiently, as one might gentle a wild horse,
I endeavor to refine my craft.
I bow to the giants whose shoulders lift my sight beyond the near horizon,
and dream that one day, when I have earned my place,
I too may bear another to see farther still.
