I watch the flares from a distance and remember when we used to watch together. Remember when you once loved me. Remember when we watched the lights in the harbour. Remember when you once loved me.
Sadness flares up as the church steeple looks down on us all, especially those living in the secret prison with the stairwell for only the holy ones who don’t know the pain of love as it is mute when it knows no names that can be spoken out loud.
We could see the flare from a distance. Then we could see more flares. It was an accident – there were ambulances, police cars, local media … this was a serious crash.
I was not prepared for the light at sea. I’d given up hope and was ready to drown when they found me. Born a cynic, there was no hope for me to draw from. But the fireworks came, fed, and took me in. Now I know I’m not alone.
You’ve got a flare, babe, a flare for the dramatic.
You swing your arms around me, like I’ve been gone, across the world.
I leave for a second, and you near tears.
But I have one favorite little thing you do: the way your face lights up as I tell you the truth, that I love you.
A flare. That’s what it was. That’s what you aimed at me. Or was it already in me, and you just lit the fuse, set me alight?
You. I thought I knew me before but, here, now, with you near, I feel so right. As if I finally understand myself.
Was it fire, passion, heat, or illumination you gifted upon me?
The light in front of her flared brightly before quickly going out. She sighed. That had been her last match too. The darkness enveloped her as she pondered what to do next. Being trapped by a collapsed tunnel had not been part of her escape plan and now there was little to do but wait.
My AP Lang teacher is someone I look up to. She’s a good teacher. You can tell this because she makes me want to learn. It’s not only because she’s young and kind and attractive.
Teachers are a fire, they have a thirst for knowledge. Students are intellectual kindle. She shares a spark with us, a scintilla of knowledge. We catch fire. She feeds us more and more knowledge until we can burn on our own. Then, we have an insatiable lust for more knowledge as well.
I love my teacher because she is a fire that illuminates my path.
It has been ages. I lit my first. It took fire, took off and flew straight back at me. It buried itself inside my coat and burned a hole my mother would undoubtably notice. She went ballistic.
a light that cant be described. blinding you as you stare deeper. the white light fills your surroundings and you are left standing, quite motionless wondering, wondering whats beyond the light. a flare, it makes you feel small. like its the first time ever seeing the light of day. as if a gentle breeze could knock you off balance
So, my flare for the dramatic is misplaced. I’d be better off tending to a flare for shutting up when the shutting up is good. Do I need to make the world right? No, I need to make the world nice. I need to just shut the f$ck up and let it go.
what then could be the loudest sound to accompany the strongest fire, that which cuts down those bearing blades in alleys, that which burns the very money which this country breathes with—that which brings disease to all.
But then I look back up. The small dark crack between the iron door and the wall begins to flare up with orange light. Now that the generators are back on, the ship can get moving again. But then I hear the sounds of canons. Too late, they found us.
He flared his nostrils as they stood face to face, inches from each other. On any other day their lips would be passionately and intimately pressed against each others, trying to seep into each other’s skins. But today was not like any other day. He was pissed. She had tried seeping into somebody else’s skin.
The flare of the match lit up his eyes, and she could see the crinkle between them. The flare of the match showed the anger in his hands, and she could see the power in his fists. She sat and watched is face turn emotions, just waiting for him to speak. He lit embers into into fire and watched them slowly destruct the room, just waiting on her to give up on him. He was angry at the world and he was fighting himself. He was torn in two and he could not decide which was worse. He did not have the capability of just being, his mess was slowly corroding his mind. So he just sat in a room and lit up matches watching them all die out.
They were shrouded in darkness, this black cloak was by no means comfortable. The boat rocked back and forth, mimicking their feelings of uncertainty. Would they be rescued, the question they needed an answer to but were too afraid to voice. They had only one flare left.
It went up, up–so high, so high. It was painful to look at, so he looked around it. The leaves shone artificial fuscia. The water around him refracted an impossible neon red into his pupils. The smoke that trailed it, a wispy light pink. He thought about how blind he would have gone if he had been in the snow.
Around him, the remains of his shattered boat floated atop the gently curling water, the eddies and currents bumping the shards along irregularly, as if they all resided on their own separate plane.
The brightness lit up the sky for a total of three seconds, it went up, up, apexed, and dropped, arcing across the bay. It was like a shooting star–or a flimsy firework.
He hoped someone saw it.
I have a flare for the dramatic– yes, the operatic beauty of chorals, of excessive dramatization of a modern rendition of a theatrical classic. What comes to mind? Gah, yes, Andrew Lloyd Webber’s Phantom of the Opera. Originally hailed a classic, its excessive modern flare has rendered it trite.
The flare lit the night sky up like a match. The broken down man used all the energy he had left to shoot off that last flare. For the wolves were coming for him and there was nothing he could do. He grabbed his tire iron and he was ready.
fire it burns bright, all night, gives me a light, gives me a flame, say my name, take ur lips, for a sweet kiss, Miss jane always loved, to hit, never a miss, brought me up when times were low, take it in slow, cool out give it another go
It was the most beautiful thing- even if I had seen them every year, this was different.
This was on the other side of the earth. These were made not for flashiness but beauty.
It was so sudden. A flare of light passed outside. They didn’t know what it was at first. Still, it was so sudden that they had to see where it had come from. They ran outside and viewed the fireworks. The flare was from the fireworks. Who knew…
The flare went off inside our hearts as we felt each other’s breath caress our bare skin. I blushed as his lips touched every inch of my skin before colliding his lips to mine in a beautiful crash. His eyes locked in on mine and I nearly forgot to breathe. His warm hands lightly ran up and down my legs, until finally he kissed my cheek and smile. I gave him a rather confused look, and within seconds he had rolled back over to his side, looking at me with his typical grin. His hand rested on my cheek and I laughed. Nothing was as innocent as him…as us…as our love.
She had a flare for the dramatic that blinded like a super nova, even when it came to topics as dull as boredom itself. Her zest and energy could transmutate words into weapons that struck at the joints and soft spots of fragile points, penetrating deep into their truth.
The last flare was gone and I was alone.
Adrift in a storm, left with the soaking and worn clothes on my back.
I was born to walk on water, but now I am just floating endlessly.
I watch the flares from a distance and remember when we used to watch together. Remember when you once loved me. Remember when we watched the lights in the harbour. Remember when you once loved me.
Sadness flares up as the church steeple looks down on us all, especially those living in the secret prison with the stairwell for only the holy ones who don’t know the pain of love as it is mute when it knows no names that can be spoken out loud.
We could see the flare from a distance. Then we could see more flares. It was an accident – there were ambulances, police cars, local media … this was a serious crash.
I was not prepared for the light at sea. I’d given up hope and was ready to drown when they found me. Born a cynic, there was no hope for me to draw from. But the fireworks came, fed, and took me in. Now I know I’m not alone.
Desinging style faboyant boys go crazy. With diva who needs teachers to tell wht is wrong or right.
Some people have flare. They have style. They have grace. They use all the colors. They live their live to the fullest.
You’ve got a flare, babe, a flare for the dramatic.
You swing your arms around me, like I’ve been gone, across the world.
I leave for a second, and you near tears.
But I have one favorite little thing you do: the way your face lights up as I tell you the truth, that I love you.
A flare. That’s what it was. That’s what you aimed at me. Or was it already in me, and you just lit the fuse, set me alight?
You. I thought I knew me before but, here, now, with you near, I feel so right. As if I finally understand myself.
Was it fire, passion, heat, or illumination you gifted upon me?
The light in front of her flared brightly before quickly going out. She sighed. That had been her last match too. The darkness enveloped her as she pondered what to do next. Being trapped by a collapsed tunnel had not been part of her escape plan and now there was little to do but wait.
Something worn in the 1970s, otherwise known as the bell bottom, I think my mother still has a pare somewhere in storage In the attic.
To burn with a sudden intensity, A sudden brief burst of bright flame or light. An SOS
My AP Lang teacher is someone I look up to. She’s a good teacher. You can tell this because she makes me want to learn. It’s not only because she’s young and kind and attractive.
Teachers are a fire, they have a thirst for knowledge. Students are intellectual kindle. She shares a spark with us, a scintilla of knowledge. We catch fire. She feeds us more and more knowledge until we can burn on our own. Then, we have an insatiable lust for more knowledge as well.
I love my teacher because she is a fire that illuminates my path.
It has been ages. I lit my first. It took fire, took off and flew straight back at me. It buried itself inside my coat and burned a hole my mother would undoubtably notice. She went ballistic.
a light that cant be described. blinding you as you stare deeper. the white light fills your surroundings and you are left standing, quite motionless wondering, wondering whats beyond the light. a flare, it makes you feel small. like its the first time ever seeing the light of day. as if a gentle breeze could knock you off balance
“There’s a ship! A ship on the horizon! Send up a flare!” the Skipper said. “Surely if we can get their attention, they’ll come rescue us!”
“Sorry, Skipper,” Gilligan replied. “Remember, this is the fifth of July? We used up all our flares last night!”
Light me up like a white hot flare.
You can touch me, if you dare.
We’ll burn so bright together that
We’ll melt each candle into wax.
So, my flare for the dramatic is misplaced. I’d be better off tending to a flare for shutting up when the shutting up is good. Do I need to make the world right? No, I need to make the world nice. I need to just shut the f$ck up and let it go.
what then could be the loudest sound to accompany the strongest fire, that which cuts down those bearing blades in alleys, that which burns the very money which this country breathes with—that which brings disease to all.
But then I look back up. The small dark crack between the iron door and the wall begins to flare up with orange light. Now that the generators are back on, the ship can get moving again. But then I hear the sounds of canons. Too late, they found us.
in a flare it took off and brushed off the fear and the took the flight of freedom and towards the destiny
The fire that once used to flare in my heart has dwindled to a dying ember.
I felt it,
I know you did too,
when we touched,
there was a flare.
It was a spark,
it burned so bright.
What was I to do?
But say three words,
that’ll let you know,
just how much,
I love you so.
So don’t forget,
one moment,
that spark,
that flare.
is the colour of my smile
and the light behind your eyes
but nothing else has that flare
nothing at all
dark redorange flight
visible only by contrast
the soul sends forth couriers
He flared his nostrils as they stood face to face, inches from each other. On any other day their lips would be passionately and intimately pressed against each others, trying to seep into each other’s skins. But today was not like any other day. He was pissed. She had tried seeping into somebody else’s skin.
The flare of the match lit up his eyes, and she could see the crinkle between them. The flare of the match showed the anger in his hands, and she could see the power in his fists. She sat and watched is face turn emotions, just waiting for him to speak. He lit embers into into fire and watched them slowly destruct the room, just waiting on her to give up on him. He was angry at the world and he was fighting himself. He was torn in two and he could not decide which was worse. He did not have the capability of just being, his mess was slowly corroding his mind. So he just sat in a room and lit up matches watching them all die out.
the flare of the match just lit up his face.
They were shrouded in darkness, this black cloak was by no means comfortable. The boat rocked back and forth, mimicking their feelings of uncertainty. Would they be rescued, the question they needed an answer to but were too afraid to voice. They had only one flare left.
It went up, up–so high, so high. It was painful to look at, so he looked around it. The leaves shone artificial fuscia. The water around him refracted an impossible neon red into his pupils. The smoke that trailed it, a wispy light pink. He thought about how blind he would have gone if he had been in the snow.
Around him, the remains of his shattered boat floated atop the gently curling water, the eddies and currents bumping the shards along irregularly, as if they all resided on their own separate plane.
The brightness lit up the sky for a total of three seconds, it went up, up, apexed, and dropped, arcing across the bay. It was like a shooting star–or a flimsy firework.
He hoped someone saw it.
Why hello, good morning, and how do you do? Did you notice the pepper spice in your smile lately?
Why good afternoon, wonderful day isn’t it, you’re such a beautiful girl. Do you notice the glitter in your eyes lately?
something you were to work at Bennigans. Makes you a much better worker and allows you to brown nose your asshole boss.
I have a flare for the dramatic– yes, the operatic beauty of chorals, of excessive dramatization of a modern rendition of a theatrical classic. What comes to mind? Gah, yes, Andrew Lloyd Webber’s Phantom of the Opera. Originally hailed a classic, its excessive modern flare has rendered it trite.
The flare lit the night sky up like a match. The broken down man used all the energy he had left to shoot off that last flare. For the wolves were coming for him and there was nothing he could do. He grabbed his tire iron and he was ready.
fire it burns bright, all night, gives me a light, gives me a flame, say my name, take ur lips, for a sweet kiss, Miss jane always loved, to hit, never a miss, brought me up when times were low, take it in slow, cool out give it another go
It was the most beautiful thing- even if I had seen them every year, this was different.
This was on the other side of the earth. These were made not for flashiness but beauty.
These hanabi were works of art.
It was so sudden. A flare of light passed outside. They didn’t know what it was at first. Still, it was so sudden that they had to see where it had come from. They ran outside and viewed the fireworks. The flare was from the fireworks. Who knew…
The flare went off inside our hearts as we felt each other’s breath caress our bare skin. I blushed as his lips touched every inch of my skin before colliding his lips to mine in a beautiful crash. His eyes locked in on mine and I nearly forgot to breathe. His warm hands lightly ran up and down my legs, until finally he kissed my cheek and smile. I gave him a rather confused look, and within seconds he had rolled back over to his side, looking at me with his typical grin. His hand rested on my cheek and I laughed. Nothing was as innocent as him…as us…as our love.
She had a flare for the dramatic that blinded like a super nova, even when it came to topics as dull as boredom itself. Her zest and energy could transmutate words into weapons that struck at the joints and soft spots of fragile points, penetrating deep into their truth.
Pppppppphhhhhhhhhhhsssssssssssttttttttttttttlllllll….pppbbbbpp…
The last flare was gone and I was alone.
Adrift in a storm, left with the soaking and worn clothes on my back.
I was born to walk on water, but now I am just floating endlessly.
cool hip style big jeans