That faux sense of pride is our prison the most treacherous sort – the one with no bars all the inmates convicted and sentenced to drown beneath brackish water of the depths.
Words written while standing here… peep the beauty admist the garbage/litter on the ground (metaphor).
Author, Amateur Genealogist, Writer, Poet, possessor of 2 cents, blogger and eternal student of life, who harbors a firm belief in his Grandmother's mantra that:
"People need to get off of their rump and do something".
All while keeping in mind that a cheering section will often get in the way.