Capturing moments and creating images with the art of writing from a hidden away notebook and it's rusted words.
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There are birds on my porch, small and cute, they have brownish black feathers with little beer bellies too. All eating rice, but some are fighting over one grain even though there is enough for all to eat more than ten times.
“I raised my daughter as a son.” “I raised my daughter as a son.” “I raised my daughter as a son.” “I raised my daughter as a son.” Over and over these words leave their lips. Smiling as if they have done a great deed. Yet they will never say, “I raised my son as a daughter.”