This is no occupation for an adult who can look other adults in the eye, carry his own weight, and count himself one of them.

The long silences need to be loved, perhaps more than the words which arrive to describe them in time.

I basked in you; I loved you, helplessly, with a boundless tongue-tied love. And death doesn't prevent me from loving you. Besides, in my opinion you aren't dead. (I know dead people, and you are not dead.)

I believe one day the distance between myself and God will / disappear.

Its hard for me to grasp that I might somehow be my fathers equal in any way.

I wish my father could be around.

Poem in other words may or may not result from inspiration but must (in reader and author alike) produce it--