With each passing day God moves through me in ways I can't explain. He likes me not being perfect because it makes storytelling a song for anyone to sing when clouds of rain decide to spit outwardly. I don't believe you learn to write in school. You were born to write and teacher's with bright red pens become the first of many mountains a simple thought is required to move through before reaching the intended set of eyes vowing to heal a broken heart.
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