Writing is like breathing for me, but it takes more than a deep breath for me to scream. I need bravery. I opt for tactile imagery in my poetry, centering physical bodies wrestling with metaphysical forces. But it’s not all rage and worry and existential crises.
Every poem draws from arteries of hope, veins of belief. Certain truths reverberate with resounding certainty, from my spine to my spleen. Poetry gives me a way to process the deep stirrings inevitably bubbling to the surface. Lines and breaks springing forth, stanzas echoing crackles of resolve and crumbled walls, beckoning me to heal.
V. H. King's Ink 