In response to two questions: Why do I write poetry, and why ‘painting with words?’, this is something I wrote in 2004:
Why do I write prose? Writing is art; art is communication. I am not timid about putting words to paper, but never solely for the purpose of marring the white expanse with smudged black ink. Writing vocalizes the random thoughts dancing through my mind. Writing is speech for the silence of contemplation; not to be confused with silent people and mindless mimes. In good measure, filling a page with words is no different in fashion than singing in the shower, or yelling in a tunnel. Lest we forget that art, whatever its form, is pure ego. Nevertheless, writing – like all art – can be therapeutic. A mind-cleansing event, allowing your ego to drift along line after line, until you reach a point where fantasy becomes clearly fantasy and life becomes clearly life again. Thus, should I write meandering, less than acceptance of stanza, meter, or line count, no linguistic offence intended. God does not grow each tree to the same exact size, shape, or hue of color; but they are of the same palette. Dreams expressed in prose therefore, should employ the breadth of palette to truly vocalize the silence of contemplation. One creates more by random thoughts actually penned, than years of balled-up, wads of failed attempts.