Time was I expressed myself through poetry. Everything seemed to come out that way. Rhythms of iambic pentameter, or more likely free verse.
Now I am stuck in long ramblings with no poetic form, though once in a while some small poems or haiku will emerge, keeping my poet status intact.
I am an avid fan of the poet, Wallace Stevens. His poetry has music to it, and I've been very influenced by him.
"One must have a mind of winter', he writes in The Snowman, 'to observe the frost and snow."
In my teenage years my poems were filled with youthful angst, and I laugh now when I read the drama of a life so yet unlived.
Online, I get my poetry fix from The Walking Man, and a couple of others who write in that form. It is good to know poetry is still alive and being read in coffee houses.
I wish I could've written this poetically, but with such time constraints that's hard to do. I'll try to write more poetry in the future.