A shadowy silhouette waves his finger at me, saying with a grim smile, “Give up your poet dream. I’ve been writing poetry since you were swimming in your daddy’s balls. Daydreamer!”
“My father never thought I could swim across the border between linguistic solitudes,” I murmur to myself . . . “He never believed I could emigrate from ideogram to alphabet.”
the scars
“My father never thought I could swim across the border between linguistic solitudes,” I murmur to myself . . . “He never believed I could emigrate from ideogram to alphabet.”
the scars
on body and mind
from my battles
against this inner noise ...
Pacific waves lapping blue
