We are learning to make fire.

Welcome to writing class Fire Class 101

Does your fire look like this?

Well I have good news and bad news.
The bad news is some of you will not take all the steps. And your little flame will go out forever, and you will never grow. I'm sorry but it's true

Now, Luckily there are some of you who are tedious enough to endure and pray and fast through all of these fail safe ways to become a good writer pyrotechnic.
Pretty soon your itty bitty flame will become like Nelson's:

Take your newspaper, like this, crumple it up real nice, like this, can you see?
You're going to end up with a little ball of words and letters and semicolons, but ignore these because they aren't important, as long as you have the words and letters and semicolons you'll be fine.

Oh! I forgot!
You will need a nice sized fire pit, one that is dug out a little bit with a shovel and surrounded by rocks to stop your fire from spreading to much, especially you kids who are super indie...  You don't want others to have your fire do you??? NO way! keep your ideas inside until they are big enough to show to the whole world.
make a circle or a square with the rocks but I'll warn you squares are NOT creative.

Next you'll need kindling.
 movies, poems, poets, paper, lamp, Bon Iver music and Sufjan Stevens of course, not to mention a classroom and desks and backpacks

Next we have small sized sticks.
A silly English teacher will do. Rough him up take small bits of him and put them on top of your words and letters and movies and poets and music. Pencils and pens will also do, but the English teacher is necessary.

can you see a potential fire yet?

Next you'll need some hefty logs to keep burning for eons and decades.
Ideas, glasses, HANDS, a brain, inspirational quotes, Jealousy, Rage, Depression, Parents, School, just your basic emotions. Great you've got some hefty logs.

And lastly. Propellant of some kind. This will be the hardest one... You'll need some nice pixie dust, motivation, inspiration, gold powder, marijuana, cocaine, you get the idea.



Oh and I forgot, you'll need a match.
And that seems to be the hardest part.
I believe in you










Class dismissed 

I want.

http://allpoetry.com/poem/8494113-anyone_lived_in_a_pretty_how_town-by-E._E._Cummings

I wish I would've come up with this.
Gosh.

me Cheating off e.e.cummings

it is so good.

I wish I was more original. And I wish I didn't have to try so hard to be creative. I wish I didn't have to listen to sad music, smoke pipes and say 'quite'.
I wish I didn't have to squeeze my heart
and not just the blood, no
pulp and all, onto a new page every single time.
i wish i wasnt scared so much of bad grammar and spelling errors
and capitalization.

I wish I didn't have to feel the obligation to make sense and shoot myself with a nerf gun.

"Make me creative God"

what my prayers consist of.

"God, make me a better writer than I was yesterday."

"God, should I write you a letter God?"

all by all and deep by deep
and more by more they dream their sleep
noone and anyone earth by april
with by spirit and if by yes.

I wish that I could write a stanza like this, and not need to feel like explaining it.

what the crap is he even saying. 

He doesn't even capitalize his own name and initials.

i wish i wasnt selfish

I envy how other writers can compare anything to whatever they are talking about, or write a story about a boy who fishes everyday and only eats bread and make it turn into a lecture about why love is the only thing that is both constant and chaotic at the same time.

 I wish I could control Chaos like they can.

....There once was a boy, and he fished and only ate bread.

Words.

I think a lot of people have forgotten that there is still beauty out there to be discovered.

Even me sometimes.

 

Courage

Courage;
Guxim
شجاع
քաջություն
cəsarət
мужнасць

i don't really know why i wrote all those different languages...
my bones told me to.

i am not capitalizing because,
my bones told me to.

we could just use that excuse for anything.

i killed a man,
because my bones told me to.

Sometimes though, my bones are scared too. And we both look at the floor and listen to music when we walk down the hallways.

My bones and I, we're like a portrait and it's frame. Neither really work without each other but they exist all the same. My bones and I, we get along sometimes, but sometimes I have to break my bones to stop me from looking up or speaking my mind. My bones and I dance sometimes. We swing each other round and round, till one of us drops.
And we all fall down.
Sometimes my bones and I, we talk to that girl. 

My bones like to draw pictures but I won't let them, so they don't turn out good.

Crackle Crackle they go, trying, trying desperately to make me phenomenally uncomfortable in my own skin. 
They are good at it by now.

Sometimes I do what my bones tell me to,


But sometimes I don't give them calcium on purpose.