Where does it come from?  It's a question, as an artist, you have to know. The only answer I ever knew was...me. The words spill on to the page in a hodgepodge and the artist in me says, nope, not good enough. And the small voice in me says Life is inspiration. Write about what you do everyday and you will be amazed at the things that are written that can become a poem. The poem will work itself as long as you are open to listening for it's comments. I listen to that voice and I began to understand that the meaning of writing is not as hard as the ability to pull meaning from the work that you produce. It has to connect to the readers and not just you. So, you ask who am I as an artist...let me tell you. I am Poor, molested, abused, broken home grown, military raised, PTSD suffering, 18 pills a day taking, cigarette smoking, hard liquor drinking, husband, father of seven, football Coaching, Basketball coaching, Wrestling coaching, track coaching, Chicago Bear Loving, God fearing, American, Italian, Mexican, who once wrote only to hide that shame. I am no longer ashamed. I am no longer waiting for the mood to strike. I sit without a glimpse of inspiration on the horizon. I speak truth. I speak family. I speak on life, love, loss, and pain. Using honesty to heal myself and with a bit of luck, heal you too. This paper and pen become a place of safety and of slavery. I sit and invite my memories in, so that they too may learn to live life with laughter and love from within. Forever learning. I know now...I love this writing thing.