We are created by being destroyed.
Poem in other words may or may not result from inspiration but must (in reader and author alike) produce it--
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.
Its hard for me to grasp that I might somehow be my fathers equal in any way.
I wish my father could be around.
The long silences need to be loved, perhaps more than the words which arrive to describe them in time.