Before I wrote poems, I listened. To vinyl records spinning in the living room. To the beat that bounced off subway walls. To lyrics that felt truer than anything I could say out loud. Music wasn’t just background noise. It was blueprint and compass. It still is.

Music doesn’t influence my poetry because of its rhythm. It shapes my voice because of its feeling. The way a song can wreck you in three minutes — or build you back up in just one verse — taught me more about writing than any textbook ever did.

When I listen to music, I’m listening for tone. Texture. Honesty. There’s a vulnerability in music that I try to bring into every poem I write. Not by copying lyrics or structure, but by learning how to feel without filters. Music gave me permission to stop polishing every thought. It showed me that raw doesn’t mean messy — it means real.

Music: What so many sentences aspire to be.
Mary Oliver

Poetry, for me, starts where music hits hardest: emotion. A certain song can make me feel something before I even know why. That’s the kind of writing I aim for — not explanation, but impact. Not narrative, but presence.

When I hear a voice crack in a recording, or a line delivered with too much tension to be casual, that moment stays with me. It reminds me that what’s uncontrolled is often what’s most human. So I let that seep into my poetry. I don’t aim for perfect lines. I aim for honest ones.

Lyricists were my first poets. Madonna, Tori Amos, Pet Shop Boys — they use language with weight and wit. They make personal stories sound universal and raw emotion feel sculpted. That balance changed how I see the page.

I don’t write poems that echo song lyrics. I’m not trying to recreate melodies on the page. What music gives me is a way of feeling through language, not organizing it.

It reminds me that the emotional tone matters more than the logic of the line. That mood can carry meaning without explanation. Music helps me listen more closely to what I’m really trying to say, even when I haven’t figured it out yet.

That’s what shapes my voice: not the rules of music, but the way it makes space for feeling. My poems come from that same space — quiet, intuitive, and honest.