To be inspired is great, but to inspire is an honor.
Stacey T. HuntTags: inspirational art day happiness love writing dance adventure romance joy night fantasy live fiction science-fiction book happy positive action sky artist honor fire laugh go sing young-adult independent thoughts independance adventures mask learn to you me teenager ya cool beginning cover inspire great cheerful series teen wanted broken break fine most i cascade teen-fiction but honorable wherever begins skyfire
all people start to
come apart finally
and there it is:
just empty ashtrays in a room
or wisps of hair on a comb
in the dissolving moonlight.
Tags: quote fire poems through through-the-looking-glass charles-bukowski quotesfire
all theories
like cliches
shot to hell,
all these small faces
looking up
beautiful and believing;
I wish to weep
but sorrow is
stupid.
I wish to believe but believe is a
graveyard.
we have narrowed it down to
the butcherknife and the
mockingbird
wish us
luck.
Tags: poem quote fire luck charles-bukowski
The fire which seems extinguished often slumbers beneath the ashes.
Pierre CorneilleTags: fire ashes hidden-talents
Others, I am not the first,
Have willed more mischief than they durst:
If in the breathless night I too
Shiver now, 'tis nothing new.
More than I, if truth were told,
Have stood and sweated hot and cold,
And through their veins in ice and fire
Fear contended with desire.
Agued once like me were they,
But I like them shall win my way
Lastly to the bed of mould
Where there's neither heat nor cold.
But from my grave across my brow
Plays no wind of healing now,
And fire and ice within me fight
Beneath the suffocating night.
Tags: fear death fight night fire desire heat inner-conflict cold ice fire-and-ice
The fire? It has been alive as long as I have. We talk and think together all night long. It’s like a book to me – the only book I ever learned to read; and many an old story it tells me. It’s music, for I should know its voice among a thousand, and there are other voices in its roar. It has its pictures too. You don’t know how many strange faces and different scenes I trace in the red-hot coals. It’s my memory, that fire, and shows me all my life.
Charles DickensFire will burn any human body it touches, and starvation will waste it, but stories are not so predictable in their effects.
Laura MillerTags: stories fire starvation
If ever again we happened to lose our balance, just when sleepwalking through the same dream on the brink of hell’s valley, if ever the magical mare (whom I ride through the night air hollowed out into caverns and caves where wild animals live) in a crazy fit of anger over some word I might have said without the perfect sweetness that works on her like a charm, if ever the magic Mare looks over her shoulder and whinnies: “So! You don’t love me!” and bucks me off, sends me flying to the hyenas, if ever the paper ladder that I climb so easily to go pick stars for Promethea—at the very instant that I reach out my hand and it smells like fresh new moon, so good, it makes you believe in god’s genius—if ever at that very instant my ladder catches fire—because it is so fragile, all it would take is someone’s brushing against it tactlessly and all that would be left is ashes—if ever I had the dreadful luck again to find myself falling screaming down into the cruel guts of separation, and emptying all my being of hope, down to the last milligram of hope, until I am able to melt into the pure blackness of the abyss and be no more than night and a death rattle,
I would really rather not be tumbling around without my pencil and paper.
Tags: writing hope fire abyss ladder
Fire is bright and fire is clean.
Ray BradburyThe hiss of the quenched element, the breakage of the pitcher which I had flung from my hand when I had emptied it, and, above all, the splash of the shower-bath I had liberally bestowed, roused Mr Rochester at last though it was dark, I knew he was awake; because I heard him fulminating strange anathemas at finding himself lying in a pool of water. 'Is there a flood?' he cried
Charlotte BrontëTags: fire jane-eyre flood rochester
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