Letters of the condemned. Last words scratched on a cell’s wall. To write like that.
Tell me what's the difference
I have no talent. I write poems for myself, to think things through, that’s all.
Where your pain is, there your heart lies also.
I’m moved by everything broken and crippled. Since that’s how we really are.
I’ve learned to value failed conversations, missed connections, confusions. What remains is what’s unsaid, what’s underneath. Understanding on another level of being.