[Fictional] Birthday Party!

Hey everyone! I’m going to make this short, since I need to head to bed in like, oh, fifteen minutes max.

Today, December 15, 2018, is Heather Morse’s birthday! She’s seventeen.

Yes… I know. I don’t talk much about her story. But I wanted to put that out there, because this is pretty important to me.

This date actually has a scene in my current installation of her story, ‘Promises’ (previously called ‘The Promise’).

It isn’t up anywhere, as I will be actively posting chapters as of next year.

And, also, yes, I gave my characters birthdays. This is to help me keep up with their ages through the story.

It’s been a year within CL since Heather started any sort of training from Steve Rogers. And, so much has happened since. I’m excited to work on writing her next year, as it will be a year of growth, as the last year was one of discovery, and a bit of brokenness.

Well, that’s all I have time for now.

God Bless,

Created to Write

Tapping and Withholding the Flow of Inspiration

When talking about fictional writing, it is important to realize every writer has a different method. That’s because no two people are the same, and neither are two writers.

Some are planners, with a full outline, pictures of characters, and a detailed setting before they start writing.

Others prefer a little bit of inspiration and a fresh page to start, and to ‘fly by the seat of their pants’ in a way.

And most are somewhere in the middle. That is where I reside (though I lean more toward planning).

Everyone does things differently, and there are different ways to gain inspiration. But there are a couple road blocks, or writer’s blocks, that get in the way of any writer’s work.

As said before, everyone gains inspiration differently. Not just in what inspiration they gain, but the the frequency and timing of it as well.

What I want to look closer at is timing. We don’t constantly get inspiration from places (or at least don’t realize it), and we don’t get inspiration in the exact same times every day, or at the same times as everyone else. Most of the time, there are two problems that writers face with the times they do or don’t get inspiration.

For some people, the difficulty is producing ideas when it’s the correct time to write. They sit down at their desk and nothing comes to them, whether it is a work-in-progress or a fresh page.

There’s always that moment when you sit down to write and stare at the page for a half hour with nothing coming to mind. I’ve been there.

I think there are more methods for generating inspiration than having to save an idea for later. That’s because each time someone has this problem, the cause is slightly different.

There are a number of reasons why we get that writer’s block.

Sometimes the place we write at might be the problem. I suggest going to a different place sometimes. Having a writing place is good, but sometimes it’ll be stunting your creativity. Have a few places to go to. I have study rooms at my school, a café, and my apartment. But, I could also go to the park by the lake if it’s warm out. Try to be flexible. And, if you go to a new place, there’s plenty of inspiration around since you aren’t used to your environment.

There are plenty of places with ambient sound, or quiet.

Another thing that’ll be problematic is your materials for writing. Do you usually use a computer? Or a notebook and pencil? If you’re having trouble generating ideas, I suggest trying a different method.

This also goes with how you think. Meaning, how you go over ideas. If you think in your head, but that’s not working, then try writing your thoughts. I find a big whiteboard is more helpful than writing ideas on the computer or paper.

And then there are moments when you are in a new place, trying a new writing or thinking method, but there’s nothing. You’ve tried the above, but it’s not working.

Well then, I have a suggestion. Just for the day, you could work on a different writing project. Even if it’s a tiny story based off a writing prompt. Sometimes our brains get tired and stressed from the current long project. Working on a less stressful and more fun piece can help loosen the creative cords of your other project. Or, maybe you can take a break from writing for the day. It’s never a bad thing to step back and breathe when you need to.

For other people, they get ideas at the wrong times. This is when they need to be doing something else, but get a really good idea, don’t have time to write it out, and don’t want to forget it. Examples of this are during work, class, or when the writer is trying to sleep.

I’ve had to deal with getting ideas at the wrong times over and over and over again.

The times it’s happened the most for me is when I’m trying to fall asleep, but my mind is hyperactive. But, a close second is when I’m in class and need to pay attention.

When this happens, what are we supposed to do?

Stop and write everything in the idea down?

Repeat it mentally and hope it can be remembered later?

Discard it, even if it is a good idea?

I have tried each of these, and I don’t think they are effective.

When I ignore what I need to do in the moment to write the idea in length, I miss out on notes, or I’ll get carried away and not get enough sleep.

If I repeat it mentally, I don’t have the mental capacity or multitasking ability for much else out of fear of losing the idea. And, I forget it in the morning regardless.

I rarely want to discard ideas, especially if I could use it later. But I sometimes have to if I don’t have time for anything else. Sometimes they come back, but it isn’t reliable enough to use as a preferred method.

So… if these don’t work, what does?

What I have found helpful is if I summarize.

Don’t write every little detail, just what you need to jog your memory later.

Leave a notepad by your bed or in your bag. Or keep your phone with you at all times.

Then take a breath and let it go mentally. It is easier to focus or sleep when the idea is stored elsewhere.

Also, I’ve noticed that if I write it down, I’ll remember it without looking at where I wrote it down. Because not only to I remember the idea, but the fact I wrote it down in the first place.

I’m sure there are other ways to remember, but this is the method that helps me the most.

So, those are my thoughts on these two big problems. When Tapping for Inspiration, or Withholding ideas for later, everyone has different ways that help them.

Let me know in the comments if any of these help you! Or, if you have something you do that you’ve found successful for you. I’d love to hear your ideas!

~Created to Write

The Passing of a Titan

There has been a ‘band wagon’ of sorts filled with tributes to Stan Lee, who is one of the major creators of the Marvel Universe (comics and otherwise), and also one of the greatest creative legends of this day and age. And… for a while, I was thinking of avoiding it all.

But I feel it is only natural to contribute.

I believe that people are given their talents, skills, and purposes by God.

And I believe he gave Stan Lee the drive and skills to create this legacy we will know him by.

Stan Lee inspired me through his creations. I even have a long fanfiction within his world, and out of all my projects, it has become my favorite.

I’ve watched all of the MCU movies, and even though I know exactly what will happen (because I’ve seen them all enough times), I still want to watch them, and I still get the same reactions and emotions regardless.

I’ve always wanted to meet Stan Lee, but I’m sad to say I am one of those that did not get the privilege.

But it’s not to say I don’t relate to him, by even a little bit. I hear that he wasn’t sure if he should keep creating comics, but he did and it became all it has since. I sometimes wonder if anything will become of my novel (series). The creative arts is a difficult path to take.

Stan Lee proves that it is possible to not only succeed, but never lose that beginning zeal and spark along the way. That you can love your work, and in it, it’s play instead.

I will probably cry when there’s a Marvel movie without a Stan Lee cameo, but he’s lived a full life, changed the lives of multiple generations, and did something I can only dream of right now; create a world of his own characters that other people love to learn about and expand.

One thing I’ve loved about fanfiction is that it expands a world. Stan Lee created (or expanded on) Ironman, Spiderman, Captain America, the Fantastic Four, Hulk, Black Widow, Hawkeye, and so many other heroes.

But he didn’t think up every character in that universe. There are countless stories waiting to be told. And, as a writer, I feel called to write a few of them. A fictional universe can always be expanded upon and given more detail.

Stan Lee’s contribution is over, but he’s given his fans and friends an amazing place to explore, finding our own characters to develop (like Heather Morse) and perhaps finding who we are through it as well.

I’ve seen many artworks dedicated to Stan Lee, but I’m not much of an artist. And I think if someone would tribute something, Stan Lee would appreciate if they used the talents they love and worked hard at.

Therefore, I used my writing.

Since my fanfiction Country Lass is set in the Marvel Cinematic Universe, it was only fitting to give him a few cameos. And my character Finn Russell already had the middle name ‘Lee’ before the creator passed.

The main reason this is (a month) late is because I wanted someone to look the poem over. …I had a genre poem due for a class. I’m not much of a poet, but I took it as a sign to write Stan Lee an elegy.

Stan Lee-egy
By Abigail R. M.

Late night glow.
Say it isn’t true.
But the computer proves
What sister silently cried.
“Marvel’s father died.”
Age 95, death by pneumonia.

He’d built an army
that still salutes his creativity,
kindness, and dedication
in the fight of fiction
even after his passing.

Half a minute, give or take,
of every product he ever made
His legacy gives him a home.

We sit up in our seats
and whisper to anyone, “That’s
Stan Lee’s cameo,” to their annoyance.
Only now with tears, as one day
there will be no cameo.

It seemed that he would never pass,
that he was immortal, like his
But though the world must live on,
it is not as dreary in the day.
He’s left his spot for someone else
to fill. He’s given others
a chance to the next generations
to change the world.
He’s done all that he can.
And he impacted more than anyone
could know.

The hero of Marvel is gone.
But, his legacy lives on in the
actors that continue breathing into his characters,
the fans that watch the movies with earnest,
and everyone that has been touched by his
creativity, kindness, and love he had for his craft.

Every Detail

It’s been awhile, but I have another ‘Meeting God’ post. This one has Chase Davenport from the tv shows ‘Lab Rats’ and ‘Lab Rats: Elite Force’ learning something new.
This one is a bit longer than the others.


“We need to find them,” Kaz insists.

Bree is looking at Douglas, who was moved to a medical gurney. “How will we be able to find them?”

Everyone looks to Chase. He realizes everyone’s looking at him after more than a second, then looks at Bree.

She looks to the others, “I’ll call Mr. Davenport, see if he and the bionic island can help. Everyone else rest up. We’ll need all our energy for the fight ahead.”

The others nod. Chase stays in his place for a second, out of touch with his surroundings. Bree gives him a hug.

“I’ll stay with Douglas, go sleep,” she whispers. Chase nods, then uses the hydro lift. He walks up the stairs to his personal room. His capsule is in the corner. He changes out of his uniform. But he can’t sleep. He stumbles out and to the couch placed in his room. He sits on it looking out the window.

His heart feels dead inside. He’s numb, but it’s still a pain he can’t describe.

He frowns at that. He tries to put it to words, but once again, he comes up empty.

“You don’t know everything, Chase.”

Chase looks up, trying to find the intruder.

“No matter how much it may seem like you do.”

“Who are you?“ Chase asks. His voice shakes, and he finally notes that his eyes are watery, leaking onto his cheeks. He touches his finger tips to his face to further prove it.

“…Oh, Chase… I can tell you what you feel.”

Chase pauses from his anger. The voice had just told him that it knows something he doesn’t, but not in a condescending way. It sounded like a father imparting knowledge on his young son, whom he cares for more than anything.

“…What?” Chase asks, “What is it?”


Chase leans back, sniffing and scoffing, “I knew that.”

“You are reading into it too much. There is no human description of heartbreak. None that are scientific at least.”

“Who are you?” Chase asks.

“Who do you say I am?”

Chase remembers hearing that questions before. Tasha had a radio channel on one morning. Though she didn’t finish it, he did catch that. Chase snickers, “You’re saying that you are God?”

“You have always been smart, Chase. …But you let it be a crutch sometimes.”

“You aren’t God,” Chase says, “that’s impossible. There is no way there’s a mystical being that oversees the world and has all power.”

“How have you come to that conclusion?” Chase senses there is a presence on the other side of the couch.

“There is no evidence towards the existence of a God,” Chase says, “Therefore, he doesn’t exist.”

There’s silence. Chase believes that the person, or thing, is gone. Then he sees a hand reach down to him. He looks up.

There’s an elderly man standing there, with jewel eyes in a color Chase has never seen before. “Come with me.”


“Don’t you want an adventure, Chase?”

Chase is about to say he’s had enough of an adventure for one night.

“Don’t you want to learn something you’ve never seen before?”

Chase then looks at the hand, then takes it. The moment he does, he’s standing at the terrace. ‘Teleportation. Right, just teleportation,’ Chase says as he looks out.

“What do you see?”

“…The city-”

“No…” The old man directs Chase’s head higher. “I mean beyond it. What do you see?”

“The Rocky Mountains. The range has fifty-three peaks along its-” he stops, clearing his throat, “Mountains, I see mountains.”

“Anything else?”

“…The sky?”


Chase is confused, but he continues, “Clouds?”


“Get to the point.”

The man sighs, “All of this, the natural creations.”

Chase waits for him to continue, but doesn’t, “What about it?”

“Where did it come from?”

“No one knows. I don’t see how the Big Bang could create this, but it had to have been millions of random events to create it all,” Chase answers, a bit exasperated.

The man stops, then thinks to himself. He then points to something, “What about that?”

Chase looks at where he’s pointing, “The clock?”

“Yes, the clock. Where did it come from?”

“A clockmaker.”

“How do you know?”

“There’s a symbol on the back that shows who made it.”

“But how do you know that it was really made by them?”

“We bought it from them.”



“Can you find the store you bought the clock?”

“Yes!” Chase yells, exasperated by this conversation.

“Have you seen the workshop for the clockmaker?”

“Well… no.”

“Have you met the clockmaker?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“Do you know their name?”


“So how do you know it was made by a clockmaker?”

“Because, it’s a clock,” Chase says, “all clocks are made by clockmakers.”

“How come?” The man asks, still patient and not in the slightest bit confused.

“…A clock couldn’t work without all the cogs and pieces fitting together perfectly,” Chase states, “a clockmaker knows how those cogs are supposed to fit together.”

“…Can’t the cogs fit like that randomly?”


“How do you know this?”

“Because… Are you kidding me?” Chase asks, “this is a pointless conversation.”

“I assure you it is not. Do you have an answer to my question?”

“Yes. The clock has many materials that make it up. There’s no way that they would happen to be formed and then on top of that, there’s no way they would naturally fit together to make a working clock. It needs a creator.”

“All the evidence is there.”


The man is silent for a moment, contemplating something in peace. He then looks up, “Do you mind if I ask a few more questions?”

“…Go ahead.”

“How many types of trees are there?”

“Over sixty thousand have been discovered,” Chase answers immediately.

“How many insects are there?”

“Around the ten quintillion mark.”

“Species of animals?”

“About eight point seven million,” Chase lists.

“How many people are in the world?”

“Seven point seven billion and growing.”

“How many galaxies?”

“One hundred billion.”

“What is the last digit of pi?”

Chase opens his mouth, preparing to find the fact and answer without pause. But then he stops and realizes that he doesn’t know the answer. “…No one knows that.”

“Hm.” The man then asks different complicated questions with science and math, all of which Chase answers without a second thought or he has to think for a couple seconds. Each question was from a completely different part of the study of academics.

“What are you trying to tell me, sir?” Chase asks.

“You say you can look at a clock, know that it must have a creator because of how intricate it is,” the man explains, “yet you also know a vast amount of the discovered world, yet believe it is all random?”

Chase stares at him.

“Chase, even if I gave the materials necessary to make a clock a million years, in the end, it still wouldn’t be a clock unless someone comes around and uses the tools to make the clock. Everything needs a creator, even life itself.”

“But what you are talking about is impossible.”

“Impossible?” The man asks. He looks out, “Many people with many different eyes look out at the world every day. And each sees something different. An artist sees the work of a painter. A writer sees the stories twisting with each other. But you, Chase, are a scientist. I bet you see how everything works, how things connect with one another. You look to the very atoms, or to the expanse of the stars.”

He looks at Chase.

“You have intellect few ever experience. So use it, Chase. Look back through everything you’ve learned. Prove to me, use evidence to show how just one thing in the natural world is an accident and not planned down to the smallest electron.”

Chase hesitates for a second, then he closes his eyes. He accesses his super intelligence, sifting through all the knowledge stored in his chip. After going through it all, he comes out to say, “…I can’t.”

“That’s because all the evidence out there further proves that it is not an accident,” the man says after a humored chuckle.

Chase leans against the railing, stunned at the revelation.

“Chase… I could tell you who made that clock. I know his name, his life, and every place in the world where the metal, wood, and glass came from to produce it.”

Chase turns to look at him.

“I could tell you the end of pi, I have more equations than you could count in mind that have yet to be discovered. The numbers you stated barely scratch the surface. Of all the people in the world in the past, here now, or in the future, there were no two that were exactly the same. And I was there, at the beginning of time, when I spoke the world into being.”

“No one can just make something of nothing,” Chase says, but he hears the doubt in his voice.

“Because you are all human, or,” the man smiles fondly, “mortal, if we’re including Skylar. You are bound by time. I have powers and knowledge no one else can rival.”

“…How can I know for sure you are who you say you are?” Chase asks, “What have you created that is so great?”

The man walks over to Chase, looks into his eyes, then sets a hand on Chase’s shoulder, “I created you, Chase.”

Something warm builds in Chase’s chest.

“Your father, Douglas, created you, yes. But I designed who you would be. Neither of your siblings could handle your bionics, much like you can’t handle theirs. I chose everything about you, from how many hairs on your head, to your eye color, height, and birthmarks.”

“…Thanks for that-” Chase mutters, remembering the one on his hip.

The man interrupts him with a smile, “And I love every part of you. If not, you would be different.”

“…Did you also choose what I would endure?” Chase asks, stepping away, “the people that have betrayed me?”

“No, I did not.”

“But you created them too?”



“I cannot choose for someone their own actions,” the man states.

“…Then why do I still go through this?” Chase asks, “Why did you make me just to see me suffer!”

The man steps forward. First Chase backs up, but then he allows him to step forward and wrap him in a hug. As much as Chase wants to deny it, it is one of the most comforting hugs he’s ever been given.

“I never wanted this for anyone. But… people chose their sin, and they were separated from Me. But… I knew they would.”

“And yet you still created us?” Chase asks, “Why?”

“Because I loved them. And I had a plan. One that would ensure that anyone that believes it is true, and believes in Me, would always have Me with them in this life, and then can live with Me in eternity when they die.”

“I don’t know if I can believe that,” Chase asks.

“It’s okay to doubt. It’s in human nature. But I will be here to help you with that doubt.”

“…What is your plan to save us? Can I know?”

The man chuckles, pulling back. Chase now sees, not a frail elderly man, but instead a man probably in his early thirties, but no less powerful. “It’s already finished, Chase. And yes, I will tell you the story. And I will answer every question you have after.”

Coming Clean

Here’s another ‘Meeting God’ fic. This time, it’s Jason Todd, aka the Red Hood.
I hope I did the character (and the Creator) justice.
…I also don’t really like the title of this one.

Jason heads to the edges of the All Caste buildings. He sits and stews, thinking about what Ducra keeps telling him; to drop his fiery anger for what Joker did and for what Bruce could not do.

His training has kept his skills up, so he’s surprised when he didn’t hear a person walk up to him.


He turns, taking out the All Blades. He stares down the old man in simple robes. Jason doesn’t move, assessing the potential opponent. “Who are you? You are not part of the All Caste. I have met all of the monks here.”

“I am not the All Caste, no,” the old man states, “but you know me, Jason.”

“I have never met you before.”

The man walks to the ledge Jason was sitting on. He sits down slowly, placing his cane on the ground next to him. “Sit, please.”

Jason doesn’t move to sit, but calls his blades to disappear.

“Jason, you will only see this sunset once,” the man assures.

Jason looks out at the horizon. The red, orange, and pink swirls with wisps of clouds. He then sits a few feet away from the man, leaning his back against a decorative slab on the edge of the nearest building. “I haven’t usually looked at sunsets.”

“Why not?” The old man smiles, “They are lovely.”

“…I’m not used to them. Bad memories.”

“Not many sunsets in the Gotham streets,” the old man comments sadly.

“…You know I’m from Gotham,” Jason says, his hand inching to a knife he keeps on his leg.

“I know a lot of things,” the man states. “I also know that there are a multitude of differences between a sunset and an explosion.”

Jason’s fingers grip the knife handle. “You know I died.”

“Many have,” the man states. Jason detects obvious sadness. “But few ever come back.”

“Pfft, yeah…” Jason lets go of the knife and crosses his arms. “Lucky me…”

“Are you not happy that you are alive?”

“Not everyone wants to live,” Jason mumbles, “it’s not a happy thought, but… I didn’t have a happy life.”

“It wasn’t completely bad,” the man states.

“You didn’t have to live it,” Jason sneers.

“You helped lots of people.”

“And still many more have yet to pay for their crimes.”

“Even after growing up in Gotham, you still have a kind heart, Jason.”

“I doubt the world shares your opinion.”


Jason watches the man as he quietly marvels at the sunset. “…What do you want?”

“Want?” The man asks, “I want to sit here. With you.”


The old man looks at Jason. “I thought you’d like some answers.”

“Answers,” Jason scoffs.

“Well, go on. Ask me.”

“Ask you what?”

“Anything. Anything at all.”

Jason looks out at the sunset, not really watching it. He smirks, then looks at the man, “How did I come back to life?”

The old man nods slowly, “That’s a very good question.”

“Talia found me wandering, dropped me in the pit to heal me, but no one knows how I came back to life in the first place.” Jason crosses his arms smugly, the smirk still present. “So tell me, old man, how did I come back to life?”

“…Because you still had much to do on Earth.”

“…That’s not an answer of ‘how.’ That’s if I asked ‘why’,” Jason says.

“I don’t see them as different questions.”

“Really?” Jason scoffs.

“The how ties into the why. Why did you come back? Because you had more to do. How did you come back? Because the person who can defy death knew you had more to do.”

“Who is this? Ra’s?”

“No. He has cheated death, perhaps. But he has never died and risen again, of his own accord.”

“Then who?”

The man looks at Jason again. “Who?” He smiles, “I think you know who, Jason.”

Jason looks at him, then snorts, “Wait, wait, so you’re saying that there’s a Creator, that somehow believes that I’m that important? That I have something more I need to do?”

“No,” the man turns to the sunset again, just as the sun’s edge disappears, “I am telling you that I know you are that important. You always have been. After all…” the man chuckles, then looks at Jason with fondness, “I did create you.”

Jason stands up, “I’m done.” He starts to walk away.

“Jason, what did you experience when you died?”

“A lot of heat,” Jason snarks.

“It was empty, wasn’t it?”

Jason stops walking.

“You couldn’t move, or breathe. You couldn’t use your senses?”


“Jason.” The man was standing, and walks over to Jason, “when you die again, on this path your cutting for yourself, that is where you will be again.”

Jason stares, trying to keep the fear off his face, “So what? I’m supposed to follow you? Listen to you? I already have teachers that give me cryptic life lessons, I don’t need another. But I’ll make sure this second life is put to good use.”

Jason then leaves the man there. The man sighs, then looks out at the stars amidst the inky black sky.

Jason sets his helmet down in his safe house. He takes care of a couple wounds he has, then looks out the bullet proof glass window. Gotham is beautiful, but disease ridden. Jason believed he was the cure. It’s been a few years since he came back, caused trouble with Joker and Batman, then disappeared so he ‘family’ wouldn’t find him.

Tim has called him some, Dick’s insisted they meet up to talk. Jason has yet to. He doesn’t know what he’ll do about his family. Bruce hasn’t tried to reach out since Jason held him at gunpoint, ordering him to kill Joker to prove he cares.

He turns from his city and switches on the radio. He takes off his armor and showers. As he’s preparing a lunch, the radio goes through an ad before changing songs.

Suddenly, a song comes on that doesn’t fit the radio stations genre. ‘Fear is a Liar’ plays softly. Jason turns to the radio to turn it off, but then stops as the chorus starts.

He sits down at the bed and listens. The song’s second verse hits him hard. He wipes a tear from his eye deciding to turn it off, until “that grace could never change” touched his ears.

He sits back, remembering that evening when someone claiming to be God talked to him. He wants to brush off the coincidence that this song just played here. But…

He walks to the glass doors leading to his shielded balcony. He leans against the railing, watching the sunrise over the city skyline.

“Are you… Are you still up to talking?” He asks the air.

Nothing but the wind replies him. It brushes his cheek and ruffles his hair a little. He sighs, looking at the street below him.

‘I knew it.’

“Impatient as ever.”

Jason turns to his left. The man is standing there. Jason notes that he doesn’t look that same. Before, he was an weathered man with a cane. Now, he stands tall and looks younger. But Jason knows, he can just sense, that this is the same person as before.

The man turns from the sunrise, smiling, “Where would you like to start, Jason?”

Writer’s Oath for Him (Poem)

I am not just a writer…

I am a hero who knows all is lost but tries anyway.

I am a villain who has a past all my own,

And in my mind, I am good.

I am a romantic, who would climb mountains

And cross seas for that special someone.


I am a:

Queen and peasant

Knight and slave

Space explorer and alien

Mutant and its maker

Detective and the criminal

I am all these things and more,

Not just simply a writer.


I do not just write…

I walk through worlds you’ve never seen.

I speak languages you’ve never heard.

I mix together colors you can’t describe.

I hear the words of a thousand tongues.

of people you’ll never meet.


Unless, of course, you read my stories.

So I do not simply write.


I am all these things,

I do all these things,

For the One who created me.

He doesn’t see that all is lost,

But knows how it is won.

He has a past of his own

That stretches passed the beginning of time,

And is the definition of good.

He doesn’t climb the mountain,

Or cross the sea,

But moves it and parts it.


He is the:

King of kings who became a peasant

Savior who died a slave

Creator of the universe, but is treated as foreign

Potter who shaped the clay

The perfect solution, given a criminal’s punishment.


He is not simple.

He’s far more.

He is the One

Who created

the world.

And penned our stories.

He is the Author of all,

And I write for Him.

People (Poem)

There are scores people

who you will never meet.


There are many people

that you’ll never understand.


There are a lot of people

that you have called either friend

or family.


And there are a few people

you may even truly dislike.


But there are those people,

or that person

that puts a smile on your face

and a fire in your heart.

And you know what?


They weren’t even trying.