Never give up. It's like breathing - once you quit, your flame dies letting total darkness extinguish every last gasp of hope. You can't do that. You must continue taking in even the shallowest of breaths, continue putting forth even the smallest of efforts to sustain your dreams. Don't ever, ever, ever give up.
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You were born, and with you endless possibilities - very few ever to be realized.? It's okay.? Life was never about what you do, but what you do.?
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Life has moments that feel as if the sun has blackened to tar and the entire world turned to ice.? It feels as if Hades rose from the depths of Tartarus with his vile demons solely for the purpose of gathering to personally torture you, and that their genuine intent of mental, emotional, and spiritual anguish is tearing you to shreds.? Your heart weighs as heavily as leaden legs which you would drag yourself forward with if not for the quicksand that overcomes you, pulling you down inch by inch, paralyzing your will and threatening oblivion.? And all the while fire and brimstone pour from the sky, pelting only you.? Truly, that is what it feels like. But that feeling is a trial that won't last forever.? Never give up.
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Are you what others say and think you are?? Or are you who you are regardless of what others say and think?
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Don't ever give up. Don't ever give in. Don't ever stop trying. Don't ever sell out. And if you find yourself succumbing to one of the above for a brief moment, pick yourself up, brush yourself off, whisper a prayer, and start where you left off. But never, ever, ever give up.
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The hours spent forming a written work can make one obsessive, distracted, compulsive, and neurotic even, especially when it comes to those rare, precious occasions of streaming pure inspiration. To have a interrupted - to watch her scuttle back into hiding with unshared insight remaining on the tip of her tongue - is a wicked irritation. When a writer's eyes glaze over, when she stares off at nothing or appears to be memorizing the lines on a blank page, when she falls asleep at the desk. Tiptoe softly. For a writer's greatest desire is to receive inspiration; her greatest nightmare, to have tossed to the wind what could've been captured in words.
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Last night I danced. My body rose from its slump for the first time since the beginning of sorrows - my fingers beckoning to the stars at arm's length, back arching as tingles bubbled up my spine, hips caught in a silent tempo while on tiptoe I twirled in endless euphoric circles. It didn't matter that you loved me or that you didn't. For I was wanted by the gods last night; their seraphs and muses descending on moonbeams into my midst, caressing my face and gliding their spirited arms about my waist, lifting my toes from the soil that I might feel what it is to fly without heaviness of heart. I danced with them under the glow of a loyal moon. For one brief, visceral dance I joyed as Heaven joys - in endless bliss. And the universe cherished me.
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To laugh continually is to never laugh at all. For it takes the periodic sound of sorrow to distinguish the sound of joy.
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Abandoned. The word alone sends shudders down a sensitive spine, troubling the thoughts of pained souls as their hurt swells in ripples. It is a sentence of undesired solitude often pronounced on the innocent, the trusting; administered without warning or satisfactory cause. One day the moon is yours, or so you believe. The next, his countenance transforms from Jekyll to Hyde with no intention of ever turning back, and you are left trampled upon in a deserted street, concealed by dirty fog that squelches all illumination or any hope for future rays of light. It is the worst of mysteries why a beast considered noble would forsake his duty, exhibiting a heart of stone. And all who once looked on him, now turn down their eyes and suffer, beguiled. Some poisons have no antidote, but are slow, silent, torturous ends that curl up the broken body swept into a cold, dark corner. There she is left to drown in her tears; a dying heart. Abandoned.
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I am.I'm here.I'm me. Are the mystery.?
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Mystery, why so attractive to me?You blind me with fear, place hope on my tongue, and with a cold kiss draw me forward. Wary and trembling, I follow.
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A warm feeling comforted the boy, as if a blanket were wrapping its soft layers around his heart and nuzzling him snuggly. Gavin loved his mother, and he would be forever grateful to his father for protecting her. The whole mystery behind it made him itch with curiosity, however.
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I stand in the night and stare up at a lone star, wondering what love means. You whisper your desire, Do I love you? I dare say yes. But my eyes drift back to that solitary star; my mind plagued with intimate uncertainty. What art thou, Love? Tell me.I contemplate what I know - the qualities that love doth possess. Love lifts no cruel or unkind hand, for it seeketh no harm. It shirks from constraints and demands, for tyranny is not love. A boisterous voice never crosses love's lips, for to speak with thunder chases its very presence from the heart. Love inflicts no pain, no fear, no misery, but conquers all such foes. It is said that love is not selfish, yet it does not guilt those who are. On a heart unwillingly given it stakes no claim. Love is nothing from Pandora's box - no evil, sin, or sorrow unleashed on this world. My eyes glimmer as the star I gaze upon twinkles with brightness that I do not possess. I recognize my smallness - my ignorance of the One whose hands placed that star in the heavens for me. He is love. By His own mouth He proclaimed it. Again the whispered question hits my ear, Do you love me? I dare say yes. But my eyes squint tight, wishing on a lonely star, wondering what love means.
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A poet is simply an artist whose medium is human emotions.? A poet chisels away at our own sensibilities; shaping our vision while molding our hearts.? A poet wraps words around our own feelings and presents them as fresh gifts to humanity.
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It is said that you can't write without a reader. The opposite holds true as well; you can't read without a writer. But if as a single, creative person you are one in the same, then, well... Problem solved! Great writing is born from that which we personally long to read.
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I love words.? I crave descriptions that overwhelm my imagination with vivid detail.? I dwell on phrases that make my heart thrum.? I cherish expressions that pierce my emotions and force the tears to spill over.? In essence, I long for a writer's soul sealed in ink on the page.
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The written word can make one pause and contemplate. It can make a reader sigh to dream or question a belief in considerable depth.? But all of that is nothing if those words fail to touch the heart and make one
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Life is a love story, with every character yearning for permanent refuge in someone's heart.
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A daily dose of daydreaming heals the heart, soothes the soul, and strengthens the imagination.
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No matter how loud the sirens or how numerous the hazard signs, we all touch the flames at least once to prove they're hot.
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The road of life is paved with daily successes, a great number of them penny and nickle triumphs. Sadly, these little feats are often seen as worthless - even failures - because we dream of greater gain. Our greed keeps us focused on a gleaming pot of gold waiting at the end of some elusive rainbow. And, despairing a big loss, we fail to see the value in small achievements.
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What you perceive as a failure today may actually be a crucial step towards the success you seek. Never give up.
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Courage to me is doing something daring, no matter how afraid, insecure, intimidated, alone, unworthy, incapable, ridiculed or whatever other paralyzingly emotion you might feel. Courage is taking action... No matter what.? So you're afraid?? Be afraid.? Be scared silly to the point you're trembling and nauseous, but do it anyway!
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There are many who don't wish to sleep for fear of nightmares. Sadly, there are many who don't wish to wake for the same fear.
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Just because a person successfully steers a voyage through hell doesn't mean he ever wants to sail that route again.
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