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Poem

Those mental landscapes, rocky deserts 
with long winding salt paths of tears, suffering

give an absurd direction, and always end 
into the many roaring tides of red and tan dunes

I am a confessional poet who understands well
the forty days of glory and the forty days of hell

Many wild horses run free inside me 
Their maniac depressive mood is always masculine and cruel

I let them trample over me, they crush my jittery self
It is a natural consequence of who God wants me to be. 

The hurting always leads me to a place that is beautiful.
It allows me to find Jesus meditating about the new earth

And in these devastating places, poets become
the voice of every little one suffering

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