The spear is nothing more than your knife on the end of a long pike. You’re first wielding it in timid defense. Hoping to write words without taking wound. You master it once you become so free. You throw it like javelin…never concerned your out of a weapon.
Your words are your truth. And we are warriors. Don’t you have your armor?
But does one need armor? When they have trust.
Trust is love. Between souls. Joining heavens. It’s the star feeling that her ignition doesn’t destroy the galaxy. It creates the system.
Your arrow is the same knife. But wielded from the artist who’s disciplined enough to let skill find its target. Unless your arrows are given to the child soldier to use as armor. When you write with words that guide quills to guide strike on target. You loose arrows first in battle…to define range on the battlefield. Your quiver holds many sentences. The first volley should fall to the ground. Marking 200 yards the enemies flank in the sand.
You can now align cavalry. You’ve given the enemy the option to not lose blood. But you’ve never arrived here to fear defeat.
Trust means you will never retreat.
Some won’t ever let go.
The wise won’t tie string to arrow. Rounding up their opposition. Nor will they tie prisoner to the horses.
Your master told you. If you want to defend. Keep your armor clean. And strike only at the next closest target that offends you.
Your spirit taught you to let down your defenses. So that nothing offends.
Your mind screams out the need to be a warrior. Howling to the moon. Taught you to find home.
———
I’ll tell you this. Your poetry isn’t perfect. It’s only something said from my mind…but better. As though I left a thought on a fell tree. And whisper in a crashing wave. With a glimpse in a cloud. And you came along and carried the feeling forward. Edited. Corrected. Completed.
Your fantasy novel isn’t a different voice. It’s truth. A young girl escaping to a virtual oasis of escape. Hoping to un-speak a father’s silence. And move forward a mother’s touch.
————
Whomever your samurai master is. They don’t write with the sword, or the pen. They write with movements. Momentum. Action. And choice.
They write with silence.
They speak with their sword. So they lay down with their truth.
———
Whatever your samurai master told you. Was told millennia ago.
Magic needs no weapons. Muggles give up the fight. And samurai’s were never sorcerers.
That makes a lot of sense. It's my hope to always write as freely and honestly as I write in my journals... regardless of where, what and how. I hope you're feeling better! 🌸😊
The point? It’s just the tip of your spear.
Perhaps it’s an arrow.
The spear is nothing more than your knife on the end of a long pike. You’re first wielding it in timid defense. Hoping to write words without taking wound. You master it once you become so free. You throw it like javelin…never concerned your out of a weapon.
Your words are your truth. And we are warriors. Don’t you have your armor?
But does one need armor? When they have trust.
Trust is love. Between souls. Joining heavens. It’s the star feeling that her ignition doesn’t destroy the galaxy. It creates the system.
Your arrow is the same knife. But wielded from the artist who’s disciplined enough to let skill find its target. Unless your arrows are given to the child soldier to use as armor. When you write with words that guide quills to guide strike on target. You loose arrows first in battle…to define range on the battlefield. Your quiver holds many sentences. The first volley should fall to the ground. Marking 200 yards the enemies flank in the sand.
You can now align cavalry. You’ve given the enemy the option to not lose blood. But you’ve never arrived here to fear defeat.
Trust means you will never retreat.
Some won’t ever let go.
The wise won’t tie string to arrow. Rounding up their opposition. Nor will they tie prisoner to the horses.
Your master told you. If you want to defend. Keep your armor clean. And strike only at the next closest target that offends you.
Your spirit taught you to let down your defenses. So that nothing offends.
Your mind screams out the need to be a warrior. Howling to the moon. Taught you to find home.
———
I’ll tell you this. Your poetry isn’t perfect. It’s only something said from my mind…but better. As though I left a thought on a fell tree. And whisper in a crashing wave. With a glimpse in a cloud. And you came along and carried the feeling forward. Edited. Corrected. Completed.
Your fantasy novel isn’t a different voice. It’s truth. A young girl escaping to a virtual oasis of escape. Hoping to un-speak a father’s silence. And move forward a mother’s touch.
————
Whomever your samurai master is. They don’t write with the sword, or the pen. They write with movements. Momentum. Action. And choice.
They write with silence.
They speak with their sword. So they lay down with their truth.
———
Whatever your samurai master told you. Was told millennia ago.
Magic needs no weapons. Muggles give up the fight. And samurai’s were never sorcerers.
But a blade can tend to a garden.
like Zia's leap beyond the cliff🌚
faith in your craft, and beyond...movement allows us to explore and return to gravity, to the essential.
hope you're on the mend and don't hurt too much form your hardwood floor situation (you're quite a catch, if it could say so itself)
That makes a lot of sense. It's my hope to always write as freely and honestly as I write in my journals... regardless of where, what and how. I hope you're feeling better! 🌸😊