Why Always?

I don’t love poetry.
I don’t even like it.
I’ve never studied it, never memorized its forms, and never cared to learn them.

But since I was twelve years old, it has found me.
Sometimes it arrives as a rhythm I can’t shake.
Sometimes it’s a handful of random phrases that demand to exist together.
And no matter how much I try to ignore it, it keeps showing up.

My style is never fixed.
It changes like the seasons, sometimes lyrical and melodic, sometimes raw and broken, sometimes both.

But always, it returns to my truest form: freedom of word.
No conventions. No set structure. Just my thoughts, exactly as they surface.

Over time, this has grown far beyond the page.
My work has found a home in men’s and women’s clothing, in pieces made for the home, and in travel items that carry my words into the world.
I’ve taken my poems into music, too, translating them with guitar, stomp pad, and AI into songs that carry their heartbeat differently.
Some whisper. Some stomp.
All are connected to the same voice that’s been speaking to me for decades.

Why always?
Because even when I step away, the words don’t.
They find me when I least expect them.
They arrive uninvited, they take root, and they pull me back, to the page, to the fabric, to the music, every time.

This isn’t about making a living.
This is about making sense of myself, over and over, for as long as the words keep coming.