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Back in high school, I wrote monthly editorial columns for the school paper. It was the usual fluff that you might expect from a teenager desperate to impress and to sound far more considerate than I was capable. But by god, it was a good time. The beauty of opinion pieces (I felt) lay in the bits of logic I could piece together to support my mindful blathering. Self-vindication without doing an ounce of outside reading and research was addictive as hell. I took to poetry quickly when introduced to writers that challenged the limits of how much meaning could be packed in as few words as possible. There is nothing else I've ever done that was equally stimulating for both the creator and the audience. I could scour my brain for the right sentence structure, or the perfect line break for days on end and cough out three measly lines, then suddenly have a flash of inspiration that flows out into a sonnet within minutes. Writing, regardless of prose or poetry, was a high tha...