New York, I’m putting together/hosting my first ever poetry event this Thursday at @quimbysbookstorenyc. Got an eclectic array of awesome writers and musicians to come out and entertain you. Still some seats left. You can snatch a ticket at the link in my bio. Hope to see some of you there. Any questions feel free to DM me. #quimbysbookstorenyc#asummersnight#poetryreading#livemusic#brooklyn
Hidden between the next few pages were small bits of course paper, my image inked on each one. I froze, heart leaping up from my throat and all the air squeezing out of my lungs. At the nape of my neck, a small tingle burned as if someone had touched an ice cube to my skin and left it there until frostbite set in.
I flung my hands at the back of my neck and rubbed at the icy fire burning down my spine. “Whoever is touching me, leave me be!” I snapped.
It had to be Mathias. All of this had to be Mathias.
Liam said he didn’t like books, these had to be Mathias’s. Even though he denied it, he watched me, and he drew me with the most exquisitely delicate hand.
I pushed aside the books and pulled out each paper making sure not to tear any parts of them. There were dozens of illustrations of me, each one more beautiful than the last. Careful brush strokes capturing the weight of grief on my shoulders, the circular slump of my back while I stacked books in the store, to the unwavering look of euphoria as I sat in front of my piano alone in my apartment. Each delicate rendering of my likeness was like a vice squeezing around my heart.
He had watched over me, for years.
I spread out the drawings across the desk and looked over them, touching each one with the palm of my hand. I felt a tug deep inside my chest, a quick sharp yank and a slow unraveling. It was like my soul was unwrapping and its warmth and light spreading through my veins. I even looked down at my fingertips expecting beams of light to shine out of them.
I swept all the drawings up and shoved them into one of the pockets of my pants. Next time I saw Mathias, I planned to confront him with them. I had so many questions for him, and I was hoping when he saw me holding the drawings he would feel he had to give me answers.
The back of my neck became an inferno of unrelenting fire, and I bolted up out of the chair and spun around angrily. The room was empty, holding nothing but dust and immeasurable amount of hopelessness and despair. “Mathias?” I asked the vacant room.
My cheeks heated as I stood there like a fool, waiting for a ghost to speak back to me.
Unedited. WIP 📸 Photo Credit: leibhaftige
There is an unrefined beauty to life on the bog
It’s an ugly kinda pretty that doesn’t fit
Your typical ideas of stunning scenery
But there is a simplicity that lies within
It’s slow growing trees full of twisted branches,
Blanketed in old mans beard
The lichen, moss and mushroom show up Often amongst the quiet decay,
Here there is a silent struggle of growth taking place
Here everything comes at a slow pace
It took approximately 2.5 seconds before the first group of people who had read The Authorship Program® were asking me if I was going to license out the system to people who would like to teach it to their own audiences. And of COURSE I said yes, and took the idea over as if it was mine all along...because what better way to help the message spread.
What am I talking about? Well, it's called The Authorship Program® Licensing Program - and it is a course that takes you step-by-step not only through the program's core principles and practices, but also how to effectively teach it to other writers and make some serious money along the way.
Now that it's finally complete - with a full mini masterclass available to anyone interested as well as the actual course in full swing - I wanted to make the most frequently asked questions readily available to anyone who was wondering what all this was about.
So...want to make an extra 10k on the side? No craziness, no getting naked...just The Authorship Program® Licensing Kit (and some essential FAQ's) on my blog today.
I am a canvas
Painted in harsh strokes
With kind words,
Mistakes blend in
Over time and diligence
But are never erased,
They sit quietly
Under layers of oil paint
Built into my foundation.. P.C : @robiee25 🙌🏻☺️ #bonsaithatwritespoems