Writers block is a necessary evil; a wall that every writer involuntarily faces.   It is a brick wall that retains the cities water supply.  Each moment builds the wall and as time ticks by another brick is layered.
      As the wall grows, ideas, like drops of rain, touch the wall but have no effect on it.  It is a long time before a powerful idea comes along.  The idea is like acid rain; it slowly corrodes the layers of brick and before long the streets are flooded.  The people are trying to find higher ground climbing to the roofs of their homes.  A woman holds a telephone pole until her muscles numb.  A slow release of her arms is perfectly timed with the tears of her husband.  He sits on the roof with his daughter, clenched in arms that can never be broken.
       A creativity flood presents ambiguous thoughts.  It leaves the author wondering if some thoughts are better left unsaid.

Sly Killers

Tigers creep,
          Closer to their prey,
                                Precarious infants learn,
                                                            Life is austere,
                                                                      Apprehensive to their surroundings,

                                                                                                   See the prey

Step out into the vision of

Sly Killers 

A Forgotten Life

Not a house, but a home

Uncharted from those whose dreams are forgotten,

Hidden from those who do not understand

That what they see is disproportioned.

Life wanders,

Not looking for you, 

Find life when it has left.

Experience Develops Understanding

          A dense haze created by the sun, and enhanced by mankind, filled the bus.  The air inside was saturated with the suns blistering heat.  The supernatural haze, almost visible in a white smoky tinge, had evil intentions.  A boy slouched in his seat; his head fell back and braced itself against the headrest.  He dropped his chin to his chest and thought nothing of it.  The haze seemed to possess the students as it flowed through their pores; ascended through their veins, and left through their mouths.  When it left the body, it was thicker and more visible than before. The blistering hot haze propelled itself through each student, as if it were feeding off of their misery.

The bus pulled up to the hotel and came to an easy stop.  Air brakes from the old rusty bus awoke a few students.  They might have been startled by the loud noise; if the heat hadn't left them intoxicated and delirious of their surroundings.  The dehydrated students grabbed their bags and ran to the lobby.  Where they were or what they were doing, was not relevant; the students needed fresh air.  The lobby's sliding glass doors cut the throat of the dense haze, which had followed them for a ten hour bus ride.  As each student received their room keys, they dispersed in groups of four.  A quick drop off of the students belongings and they were ready to embrace the foreign city. 

A few minutes later, the three teachers assembled and counted the students down stairs.  They departed from the lobby; one teacher set a brisk pace at the front of the line while the other monitored the group at the back, so that they all stuck together.  Although it was not an orderly march, it was an effective way to transport the students around. They walked, aimlessly following their teacher, down the stairs of an old subway station.  Graffiti was small and barely visible, but abundant.  The floor tiling had been torn up on one side of the hall, and the paint on the handrails had chipped. Despite its appearance, something left an unforgettable, warm feeling inside.

The students separated into the cars of the subway train.  A boy thought, "It is an interesting feeling to be so far away from ones comfort zone, but yet so comfortable because of the people around you."  As the train entered a tunnel, the darkness startled a girl; she let out a brief shriek that left the whole rail car on edge.  Although she was apologetic, everyone was still a little restless.  The pitter-patter of the tracks also did not help settle any of the passengers.  A tunnel light flashed by the window and illuminated only the right side of the train; it was followed by a few others that passed the car in an intoxicating fashion.  The tunnel was endless and the students were dying to get out.  The train was too familiar to the haze that had haunted them earlier in the day. 

A boy sat near the window, staring into the blinding lights that passed the railway car.  His vision faded into a simple white background.  He continued to stare, as the blindness created a blank canvas for his imagination.  His thoughts, however, took him back to the memories of the haze.  The boy wanted to escape the thoughts; he needed to.  Beads of sweat grouped under his hairline, as if they were trying to achieve freedom from his thoughts. They were all uneasy now, their stress was mounting, and it was hard to tell the difference between students who were eager to explore, and students who were ignorant; only wanting to find the nearest exit. 

The front side of the cart gradually grew lighter, before bursting into an evening glow.  Something stood outside the left window, hidden behind the pressed noses of the students.  Its intimidating beauty and power put those who questioned it in their place.  The thoughts of the haze faded. The day was vague in their mind, but the evening would be different.  The train stopped and a voice came over the PA system.

"Welcome to Paris."

A Familiar Phenomenon

Ones sense of smell, in a way, is a phenomenon.  Its adept ability to instill memories defies logic.  I remember waking up, choking on the smell of cigarette smoke as it lingered the downstairs bedroom.  The smell was embedded in everything.  I knew that because all too often I found myself using the blankets as a gas mask.  That smell never left my mind.  It wasn't the only smell, however, to leave me with vivid memories of my childhood. 

Around midday I could be found on the other side of the white fence.  Knee-high bushes stood on either side of the rocky path. The path was not full of pebbles, or sand, or even dirt, it was more of a composition of dirt and palm-sized rocks.  My direction of travel was rarely determined, as I often deviated from the man made paths.  I wandered; in hopes to find a new path - or maybe I was trying to get lost.  Regardless, blackberry bushes were in abundance.  They were the one thing that I could never seem to get away from.  To this day, I can not describe the aroma of the area to which I so often fled. The sun was white hot; it seemed to immunize my sense of smell.  Perhaps that is what instills this memory so vivid in my mind - the smell of nothingness.

Have a listen

I value what Shane Koyczan says in the poem that he delivered during last years Winter Olympic games.  It represents Canadians as we are.  We should be proud of what the Olympics did for both Vancouver and Canada.  The Olympics, however, did not change Canadians; it only brought out our patriotism.  It allowed the world to see who we are as a country.  A Canadian is a little of you.  In a sense we are the most diversified nation; people from all over the world flock to our beautiful country.  Canada is the world's largest portrait, painted by millions.  It is a cultural mosaic to which outsiders marvel.  We can now be understood for more than our ability to say 'please' and 'thank-you'.  For that, I appreciate the Winter Olympic Games.