We all go on our own journeys to create a masterpiece, To become the master of a piece. Three types of people are here on this path to create a story: The ones that have success, showing their bravery and talent; The ones that have failed, giving up or refusing to learn; And finally, there are people like me. You see, people like me can see an opportunity, to lead to what they want to be, and so they each begin their own journey. And now I too have begun on my journey because I am determined. I will determine my own fate, master my own piece, to tell my own tale, sound my own voice in my own story, to perform a recital to recite all the thoughts and feelings going through my head. This is why I seek to create a masterpiece. This is why I am on this path. Through the trees on either side of me, I can see friends taking similar paths, all taking their own first steps. Each is equally excited to get on their way. I call out, and we talk and listen. And we bounce ideas off of each other like two tennis players enjoying a match on a sunny day. But as I continue on the path I catch the scent of harsh reality. The trees thicken, darken, and my friends are lost from view. Brambles and thorns interrupt my path, impeding my every step, and immense struggle is required just to keep going on. Weeks go by and distractions all around me slow my progress. Nevertheless, I continue. I push onward and onward and onward. I see others ahead, my friends, allies, and comrades, fighting valiantly and achieving their own victories. Stories that have pixies and dragons and bards. Stories from a palace to a graveyard. Stories that look at how life is not easy but it is hard. Or the stories started on a simple notecard. Or stories about fairy tales that fixed or that are fractured. Stories whose audiences are captured with rapture. Stories that show life both front and backward. Stories about war and peace. The stories about both greatest and least. They each master their own separate piece. Their victories spur me forward. Onward and onward and onward I push. But suddenly I am forced to stop in my tracks. Before me looms an imposing wall impeding my progress: a Writer's Block standing in my way. Suddenly I'm trapped. Like a blank page, an empty stage, a locked cage. And all I've got is Writer's Block. I looked around desperately, but there's nothing I can do. I see the Masterpieces standing tall above the trees around me. Their majesty leaving me small, insignificant. Trivial. Worthless, in the shadow of other's stories. But it seems while everyone's flies, my stories of word are stuck in the muck with our path blocked by the wrath of the writer's block. No way to escape it. It's in my way so I can't see the way to success. What a mess. My message can't get itself across. I have lost. But no. I can't give up. I lift my head I look around, take a step back and breathe. I inhale the breath I've needed to breathe in order to see. I look not at my path, not at the grass or the rocks or the streams or the trees. Instead, I look and see Me. And then I laugh. For with me in each hand I held tools. Tools that I'd gathered at the beginning of my journey. These tools. These tools were The Poet's Chisel and The Writer's Mallet. Then I look up from my hands and see the block in the path that lays before me, and I understand. The block in my way is not an obstacle, it is an opportunity. I look back to my hands and see the tools; The poet's Chisel, and The Writer's Mallet. Then I set to work. I work and work at it. The block may be tough but I am tougher. I chisel away Piece by piece by piece. Soon it begins to form. Curves and edges, smooth, round and rough and pointed. I work on it more and more. Piece by piece by piece, I work day and night, and I know I can't, no I won't give up the fight. And even though my path is blocked I slave away to go the extra mile. I pour my blood, sweat, and tears into this creation, this piece of myself. The chiseling of one part then another, striking at the ideas I've been struggling to express since I embarked. I exert myself to my full potential, toiling, my mind is boiling Molding and folding and rolling. Pouring a piece of myself, my soul into my work and my work, for once, actually starts to work. This is why I write. I write to express my sight, To see and be the light that opens the night. I smile. And I step back to admire the work that now stands before me. Just like the stories that have pixies and dragons and bards. Stories that look at how life is not easy but it is hard. Or the stories made from passing a notecard, or stories about fairy tales that fixed or that are fractured. Stories whose audiences are captured with rapture. Stories that show life both front and then backward. Stories of war and peace. Stories, hallmarks, their own gold showpiece. Stories that give my heart, my mind, my soul release. I've finally made my very own, Masterpiece.