We are created by being destroyed.

We are created by being destroyed.

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.

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

The humiliation I go through/when I think of my past/can only be described as grace./We are created by being destroyed.

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