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Aug 2013
What kind of writer am I
when I cannot even find the words
They slip past me, like feathers in the wind
feathers like paper, with the words I need to say
Maybe I'm not even human
Maybe I am a bird.

Perched inside, locked away
I am a bird in a cage

It is like this.
This is what I need to say.
I am a bird,
caged away
In a tree that reaches the clouds
So that I can see the free ones fly

With wings strong enough
to break their hold

When will my wings
be ready?
This is what depression feels like. Broken wings while you can see the other birds fly free.
For the Sparrows
Written by
For the Sparrows  Earth.
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