Poetry is a kind of breathing. Necessary, but at times difficult. It is the choked gasp that comes at the edge of a cry. It is the long contented sigh of a child on a hot summer night lying beneath the stars, bare feet stroking the grass. It is the sharp pain of ice-cold air in the winter that thrills the lungs and makes one feel alive. Poets do not write because they want to; poets write because they have to. Could the poet not purge his words upon the page, I truly believe he would drown in them, suffocate beneath the weight of his thoughts. So it is, that when the world turns upon its axis and the lives of men go walking about, that the poet will exhale and wash the earth with new wind.