Five nights passed and seven stars had to die to grant him his wish, seven stars was the price for a priceless pen, The aspiring writer held this heavenly pen tight as if it was the answer to his dried mind ready to write till the rising of the sun, yet not a word, not a line could he write, cursing the stars he walks to the well of good wishes and started casting coin after coin wishing on the right book to write a good story all night and the whole of the next day he cast coin after coin even asked passersby for coins as it took all he had, and then some, was the price for the well to grant him his wish, next to him a steel blue book with moon white pages, it was lunar parchment, each page had a glow, was soft and textured, the greatest book ever crafted and the moon was never full again.
The writer with his wishes in his hands sat down expecting words but not one came to his mind.
Not a good story, he could not write a word afraid to waste ink afraid to waste a page, for what more could he wish?

What makes a good story?
There are many things that make a story good the characters the themes and the plot, how your characters grow, and the pacing, and how the themes are there, but not predictable, and countless other things that accomplished writers have written and made videos for us to learn from.
Focusing on the craft and all its elements are important to a good story, I believe the story is good before the crafting and elements, they are the fuel to the fire, and can make the telling of the good story amazing, but we can focus on every element and seek all the best ways, and drink as much caffeine or get as drunk as possible or do whatever is the next thing we believe is the best thing, but that is not what makes a story a good one, the breath of the fire, is the spark.
A spark does not always create fire at first, sometimes we have to spark a couple of times before something is lit.
The spark I speak of is that feeling that there is something, that pull, from within we all have this spark but as a spark, it is often fleeting and many just move on giving up on that fire and sleep cold and hungry soul, hungry uncomfortable and not satisfied looking at the stars and casting wishes, thinking that we need something to inspire us or create us, we are afraid to focus on the spark because it feels distant and fragile, but you cannot deny it a spark is a flame it is a fire inside you, we all have it, you have it.
The spark is you, that feeling of an idea that just sits with you sometimes it’s a small thing like a hunch and sometimes it is an idea, it is that you inside you, you are a fire of sparks and trusting your fire will make you a wild one setting all alight, believe in your spark it is a good story.

I think of the writers that wrote the stories that have lasting ripples in my life, how they must have trusted word by word as they write the story, trusting that this is worth telling, Their courage has left a mark on my life, and it all form trusting that spark, I think a story with all the good techniques and all the best ways of writing can still be a bit of a blunder if not honest, it will pass you, but a good story is an honest story, an honest story comes from a true spark, comes from you.
Thank you for reading
Have an epic week
Peace and Love.

Standing with coins in my pocket, I face this giant with lights and buttons filled with colors I have to choose, which sugary treats will be worth my coins. Having made my choice, a packet of sour worms, I wonder was it the right choice was it a fair trade the packet is quite small, and someone next to me walked away with Astros did I make the right choice?

When I look back at my life I see that most of my life I have lived according to the exchange rate, I have swapped almost everything for everything, when I was young it was simple homework for playtime, and sometimes it would be a Pikachu, Meowth, Bulbasaur, for a Charizard.
Now I see that I made many transactions often unspoken ones, exchanges to be excepted and liked, exchanges that would only coast to conform not knowing I was actually exchanging myself, rather not wear this shirt, this one is “cool” rather not go barefoot, or whatever it was was small exchanges, unseen and almost unnoticed.
I have realized that to this day I still live with this exchange rate, what we call manners often is only exchange for being accepted, walk barefoot in a mall and see what happens, fart loudly while walking down the street, I can hear all the buts and protesting. We force smile and wave because if you don’t then you will be perceived as nasty or mean

I have seen how this exchange rate has influenced my relationships, and even how I saw and treated God. I often treated friendship as a trade you buy today I will tomorrow, a message for a message, a gift for a gift, I could not be the only one receiving nor the only one giving, we all have heard it or even said it, earn my respect, that’s saying earn my kindness, love, and my friendship what are you exchanging to be in my circle?
I often worked for love or friendships I did this trade subconsciously because that is how it worked it was how life is all around me.

Dear God I will stop swearing if you can just let me win this one time, God I know I have been bad but I won’t be anymore if you can just help me out this one time, the exchange prayers are endless, we even live in a state of constant exchange, God I give you a good life as good as I can in exchange for heaven, ever wonder what you did wrong when things go wrong in your life, today was shit but yesterday I was rude to that other teller and now I got what was coming to me, my bad deeds in exchange for punishment, and sometimes we chuck a coin into the vending God and two cokes roll out instead of one, and that might of been because I was exceptionally good, the exchanges are endless.

I still catch myself bargaining with God, I want to go on this trip, I explain why it would be good and what good I will do, I want to earn more money so I lay my budget down before him with hopes that it would reveal that I will be good for this raise or more income, here God I will give you this if you could give me that, God here is my talent it’s for you now please help me publish, or God here is my voice I will sing for you as if singing can ever be void of God as if our talent is separate of God.
I wonder it and heard it form others; I did not use my talent for God so God took it away, what a bad investment God made in me, I only gave my voice for money and fame, now I have lost it all, what a tragic exchange.

I can only speak for myself, with no relationship exchange makes sense because we believe in the worth of things and actions, not in the worth of self, I think this is probably one of the greatest lies we believe and that is that we are not enough or not worthy by just being us.
We are.
You are.
I am.

Dear God, I won’t… again, if you can just…

Standing with coins in my pocket, I face this giant with lights and buttons filled with colors I have to choose, which sugary treats will be worth my coins. Having made my choice, a packet of sour worms, I wonder was it the right choice was it a fair trade the packet is quite small, and someone next to me walked away with Astros did I make the right choice?

When I look back at my life I see that most of my life I have lived according to the exchange rate, I have swapped almost everything for everything, when I was young it was simple homework for playtime, and sometimes it would be a Pikachu, Meowth, Bulbasaur, for a Charizard.
Now I see that I made many transactions often unspoken ones, exchanges to be excepted and liked, exchanges that would only coast to conform not knowing I was actually exchanging myself, rather not wear this shirt, this one is “cool” rather not go barefoot, or whatever it was was small exchanges, unseen and almost unnoticed.
I have realized that to this day I still live with this exchange rate, what we call manners often is only exchange for being accepted, walk barefoot in a mall and see what happens, fart loudly while walking down the street, I can hear all the buts and protesting. We force smile and wave because if you don’t then you will be perceived as nasty or mean

I have seen how this exchange rate has influenced my relationships, and even how I saw and treated God. I often treated friendship as a trade you buy today I will tomorrow, a message for a message, a gift for a gift, I could not be the only one receiving nor the only one giving, we all have heard it or even said it, earn my respect, that’s saying earn my kindness, love, and my friendship what are you exchanging to be in my circle?
I often worked for love or friendships I did this trade subconsciously because that is how it worked it was how life is all around me.

Dear God I will stop swearing if you can just let me win this one time, God I know I have been bad but I won’t be anymore if you can just help me out this one time, the exchange prayers are endless, we even live in a state of constant exchange, God I give you a good life as good as I can in exchange for heaven, ever wonder what you did wrong when things go wrong in your life, today was shit but yesterday I was rude to that other teller and now I got what was coming to me, my bad deeds in exchange for punishment, and sometimes we chuck a coin into the vending God and two cokes roll out instead of one, and that might of been because I was exceptionally good, the exchanges are endless.

I still catch myself bargaining with God, I want to go on this trip, I explain why it would be good and what good I will do, I want to earn more money so I lay my budget down before him with hopes that it would reveal that I will be good for this raise or more income, here God I will give you this if you could give me that, God here is my talent it’s for you now please help me publish, or God here is my voice I will sing for you as if singing can ever be void of God as if our talent is separate of God.
I wonder it and heard it form others; I did not use my talent for God so God took it away, what a bad investment God made in me, I only gave my voice for money and fame, now I have lost it all, what a tragic exchange.

I can only speak for myself, with no relationship exchange makes sense because we believe in the worth of things and actions, not in the worth of self, I think this is probably one of the greatest lies we believe and that is that we are not enough or not worthy by just being us.
We are.
You are.
I am.

I nervously sat in a room darkened with my fear, the gloom sat on the walls my melancholy a tangible feeling to anyone who passes this room of darkness, it was not what I intended, all I wanted to do is write a poem, but a fear-filled mind quickly can conjure nightmares that even makes sunlight dim to nightfall, I was afraid that I will fail. (I fucking hate failing)

While my mind entertains these lies I cannot think clearly, I cannot put pen to paper I cannot move all that keeps popping up inside is why are you doing this, who are you fooling, why even try, you will get exposed as a fraud, with my cluttered mind laying heavy on my heart I could not write.

Walking outside in the light trying to breathe I go about my day as normal, knowing that today, I still need to write a poem.

I cannot recall what poem I wrote on that day but I know I had many similar days not as dramatic as that might have sounded but we all know that voice that pops up in the quite with your fingers on the keys or pen at hand or whatever you doing that voice that pops up often in the quiet spewing lies, lies that disqualifies and breaks down, lies that tries to avoid true quiet, the quiet that settles in your heart like a leaf on water, the quiet knowing of truth, that quiet place where you are still and you know you are. 

Writing often requires quietly sitting and thinking what to write, what to rhyme, thinking of the characters and all their why’s and the what if’s in the stories, whatever you writing, sitting, and doing nothing is a part of it, drifting in thought sitting in the quiet.

It was hard for me to sit in the quiet because of the voices I mentioned, I believe all expression, has this challenge whatever your art, there is a stillness that must, for us to truly express our heart.

I believe many of us struggle with this.

Life is just one enormous conglomeration of noise, alarms wake us, notifications on our phones now we always have music with us in our ears, or podcasts and radio, traffic, peoples voices, and opinions, we move from noise to noise, we go home and watch shows or listen to music, always noise, my mother will work around the house but the TV will be on the news not watching but listening, we always have noise, I think we fear stillness, quiet, not moving, well I know that I struggle with it, I always have to do something, have to seem busy, someone must not see me just sitting for no apparent reason, we have to make noise and “hustle” that is a successful life.

The quiet will bring stillness and awareness of the moment and a connection with you that is what I believe we fear, ourselves facing the truth of us.

I don’t want to go on this too deep for now but I am reminded of the quote in Coach Carter 

“It is our light, not our darkness, that most frighten us. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won’t feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine as children do.” 

I think we get glimpses of our light when we are still and that may frighten us because often that light seems contradictory to what we know as normal, but I want to write more about the practical things that happened as I forced myself to write a poem every day from Monday to Friday for ten weeks.

I got used to the quiet, instead of having this epic battle with my mind and the fear of not getting anywhere I found peace within the process a comfort with that bit of discomfort and my mind started to work with me, I found stories everywhere. 

Often I would sit in the house and nothing is coming to mind, maybe only words or small ideas but nothing substantial, not that epic flow, and I would often sit two hours having written only three lines or less or more but it’s not poetry it is just words or phrases, I would then still not worry or fear I would do something ells and come back or what I recently started to do is go to another place, jumping on my bicycle and go I like nature so I would find a place near water and sit and write sometimes, I would go to a place to buy a coffee, I did not always like that because that felt too stereotypical (also just a battle with an illusion.)

I would like to go to this pizza place and sit at this certain booth order a cappuccino and write and stories would come one of the poems was about a girl building her own pizza.

I would just walk outside my house find a place to sit and write about that spot, there were bees just humming above me as I sat in the shade of a tree and that became a poem everything started to whisper to me as I became comfortable with the stillness, even noisy places make for amazing poetry but I needed to be still within.

The noise in my mind was lies, mostly just what I thought people might think, and not living up to their expectations that I decide that they have, weird how we work( I don’t believe that I am the only one doing this) I immediately had a mind of disqualification before I could even write, I first had to battle this noise, I don’t have answers to a noiseless life, nor the five steps to becoming the world’s best selling author but what I have discovered for myself is that spending time with what you love will require a stillness of heart and that will force you to face you, and facing you, will reveal you and the lies that you believe then it slowly happens without you know, you are, I don’t know how it works all that I know is that it does and that we must, most of us want to become forgetting that we already are, and stillness of heart helps reveal that truth. 

Now I am a lover of quiet places it encourages stillness.

Thank you for reading, have an epic day.

Peace and Love. 

I wrote a poem a day every Monday to Friday for ten weeks.
What happened well I have discovered that we are not limited, I wrote and thought that I am going to hit a blank I am not going to have a poem to write that my creativity will run out, and it did not somehow I found more and more words more and more ideas and I got better at it than I thought, I got more excited for what I was writing because I have discovered that there is just so much more, weird that the less I wrote the harder the words came and the less creative I felt.

Writing often I felt fatigue at times and that made me lazy and that I want to give up just that I just have to give up or skip the day and if that feeling was strong I hit some of my old books and wrote, rediscovered them and edited them and posted them felt a bit like cheating, but I just needed to get over my silly issues and enjoy giving new life to old pages.
One of the biggest things that happend is that I disovered how I write, call it a process but I started know mysself and trusting myself to write, my poems started changing it was a voice that was always speaking yet I have never gave it the time of day I could not always recognise it but now I have and I hear the diffrent tones and depths, and I know there is still much to discover.

I have a new confidance when writing my poems, I have become comfortible with the sitting and quiet, I often got fustrated (Fbomb)
with myself I need to get this poem out why am I just sitting here why cant I get a line written down, its going to look like I am doing nothing, what must I write about all the voices are just noise that builds wall around creativity, sparks need air, when I made peace with how I write knowing that it will come the more free I wrote the more I could write my heart out.
There is a beauty that comes with freedom and acceptance a trust that I can not give voice to yet for me it is still a young discovery, I have excitment in this new knowing and trust.

I will write more aout this “gump challenge and the discoveries with blogs to come.
Thank you for reading
Peace and Love.

When I decided to start blogging I was unsure what I should do with it, I knew that I want to write, share and express I have enjoyed the discovery and enjoy the process of writing something, being that it was unclear and that it felt like I was only starting I wrote what was on my heart writing about writing, random moments and writing more about the act of writing avoiding to write something down, this went on for longer than it should have and a friend once told me (now I will paraphrase) “but you are not writing”
He was right so I decided I will write and post my poems and that is when I had it a small “Forest Gump” moment I just decide that I will keep writing a poem on the blog every day for five days and somewhere I broke my stride but then it came again with vengeance I just kept posting poems, not knowing for how many weeks I would want to write I knew that I want to write at least one week worth of poetry but I kept writing and writing not sure when I will stop, I just kept running.
It went on for weeks and there were times when I cheated a bit well I had no rules but I posted poems that I have previously written, they needed some revision, more about that on a later blog the main thing I did was force myself to write and work on the art I love, I just kept writing a poem, each week I had five new poems I never thought I would have, all I did was write.
In the blogs to come, I want to share just what I have experienced in doing this Gump challenge and why it has changed so much of my writing and how I approach it.
When the words was said that I am not actually writing I felt it, I knew what I was doing, I was hiding, first class hiding if I have to say so myself I was hiding in plain sight I wrote and had the blog to prove it and yet a true friend saw the bullshit I was selling and I did what I do best run and keep running, running in this case straight into the direction of my heart and the more I ran toward my heart the less aware of fear I became I don’t know if I passed fear on the way to my heart or if I was running away from fear or through it but all I know is that I just posted my work and in a weird way became less and less worried what you the reader might think, now that might seem like I became lazy or not involved, that was not the case at all, all I wanted to give was honesty, I had more freedom to express and create, to cut and add what I wanted with very little thought of what might seem interesting to you, I just want to express this poem as I felt it should be as honest as I could, more on that later.

I did not think that a simple commitment to a small task like this would transform my writing as much as it did, or let me phrase it like this that it would reveal my writing as it did because for a large part we are always in the discovery of ourselves, we get revealed trough our art and that was the magic for me.
It is a liquid always moving and different but the same like an ocean or flame you see it, it is the same and yet there is always a reason to keep seeking and watching it, as it keeps revealing, so are we if we just keep in the direction of our heart.
Thank you for reading
Peace and Love.

How do you express a heart with so much life to share?
I have been only posting poetry for a while and now I feel like I want to let you all in on the things I have experienced in life and just committing to writing a poem for five days of the week every week for an undisclosed period of time.
I have to follow my own advice and just breathe, honestly, I feel like I want to explode.

I am just going to fall in with a rose, I have simple eyes when it comes to roses all I notice is the colour, but recently my horizons have been broadened about the different kinds and their names and I was reminded that there is always more to everything we see, roses are not just beautiful flowers with thorns.
I had the privilege to accompany Mark and Kelly to an art exhibition in Rosendale, and again my mind broke as it often does, inspired, overwhelmed with life and all its possibilities.
It was beautiful art of all kind, photos, paintings and sculptures, it felt special to be at a small town in a little place with tiny rooms and the world is going on with all its beauty and madness but there in that place at that moment we are just walking in a place with things created by other roses with wonderful names and layers and stories, appreciating their time and hands was an amazing privilege.
Realising the rose we see most often, judge the hardest for its thorns and only see as dull, is the reflected rose, it’s hard to see our own splendour and magic our own vibrancy.
We often feel guilty when we catch a glimpse of our beauty.

Walking seeing what people made I felt my heart resonate, as if there was soul music playing bouncing off from the art and the people, I hear the song I felt my hart harmonising with this song, and I got excited for my friends that I know have sweet music to share to sing, hum and play.
I got excited and I frustrated, with our hiding and feeling inferior or whatever the excuses are to not just let it all out, maybe it was more for me then for my friends maybe, sometimes when I stand on a mountain and watch the sunrise I honestly wish the world could just stand still and appreciate the splendour of light, and Mark and Kelly are such splendours rising suns of warmth and colour.
We all are, it is just easier to see in others.
On the drive back I broke into a badly spoken speech with what Kelly calls F-bombs of how FRUSTRATED I was with them because I want them not to hide or doubt their own light, they should create and go for it, the words I flung on our way back was aimed at myself as well.
Now that speech with some revision.
I am excited for all of us, there is not one dull rose, and the beauty of a sunrise and a rose is that it does not beg for an audience when it is just purely itself.

I often walk with Mark and we go to places and take photos of beautiful nature and wildlife or entertaining streets filled with structures and moments but I catch myself often taking photos of Mark taking photos, why when all around me is there waiting for a photo why am I taking a photo of someone that I can photograph at anytime? Life, life, he is alive there is a tangible passion a heartbeat that pulsates off of him, you can feel it and you are drawn to it, I have just stood and admired Kelly at being Kelly, playing the piano, creating a garden, I have been witness to many roses and rising suns, being themselves with no audience or recording just passion erupting, a moment of unforgiving no questions asked life. Honestly, I know of no better beauty than those moments.

I often think of worth the price tag or seats filled forgetting about depth.
The depth of the moment alone on a mountain and you see the sunrise or set or looking at the ocean only you and all its splendour there is and indescribable power and intimacy an unending depth, no need for an audience or a price tag only the awareness of this beauty, and that it is a reflection of us, there is no dull rose, seen or not seen, plucked or not.
I am more excited, for my fellow roses and rising suns, exited I see us growing I see us rising I see us reflecting, I am excited without expectation a peaceful excitement knowing that there is no dull rose.

An honest life a rare find
most hide
unaware of the treasure inside
Buried and ocean swallowed
nescient of what masterpiece the chest holds
no map no compass no x
A hart burdened with lies
struggles to stand
if only you could see
your glint and shimmer
only from your self, you conceal
with trust, you will reflect and reveal
Your hide will not prevail
for you truly are
Nonpareil

Long have I filled cups with water
Hoping it would be wine
Trying to be Jesus
Miracle hunting to be good.
Long have we looked at Heroes
with empty eyes,
Hungry to be them,
discontent with ourselves
Heroes are more dangerous than villains
If we try to be them
forgetting ourselves
Missing the divine within
don’t hide behind the storybook and scripture
the lure of better
the message is not to be like them
but they like us are.
the song of the hero is to be you.
you.

A bag of stones in my chest

I sink to the deep, heavy in the dark I settled.

I have caused my own storms and wrecked ships

Blind to the shimmer

Blind to these gems of mine

Forgetting these stones are my treasure

On this page, between thin blue lines

My heart beat, beats

You can hear the rhythm and blood I hide in these sheets

Words like seeds of oak

I plant my forest. Find me or not, find the wild of this place, I stay.

Not every word I write I will say

Not everything I feel I reveal but in this, what most call poetry, is a boy I call me,

Often I find him dancing between beats