Kaleigh Jae Poet Free verse

A thing that burns pt 1 of 2 talent show performance

I’ve always thought fire was strange.
The same thing that can swallow a forest
or bring a house down
is the thing we gather around
when the night gets cold.
Fire cooks our food.
It turns grain into bread,
and scattered ingredients
into something 
that brings people together.
For thousands of years,
people have been building fires:
in hearths,
on campsites,
in quiet circles
where stories rise 
with the smoke.
Around a fire
people slow down.
They laugh.
They stare into the flames
as if the fire 
Was trying to tell them something
And maybe it is.
Because fire…
is a lot like anger.
It only needs a moment.
At first, it’s small.
Just a spark. 
A single moment that catches:
something said.
Something done.
Something that shouldn’t have happened.
Barely visible.
A flicker. 
Something you could crush
between your fingers
if someone had only noticed.
But anger—like fire—
grows.
It feeds on what surrounds it:
old hurt,
words left unsaid.
Dry branches.
Give it air…
and it grows. 
Give it silence…
and it grows.
Give it something to burn…
and it grows. 
A spark…
another spark…
another spark…
and suddenly
something small
has become a flame. 
Here’s the strange thing: 
Fire isn’t inherently good or bad. 
The same fire
that warms your hands
can climb a wall.
The same spark
that cooks a meal
can race through dry trees
until the horizon glows. 
Fire doesn’t decide what it becomes.
It answers only
to the way it’s fed. 
Anger is the same.
Left wild, it can destroy.
It can burn bridges.
Turn forests of trust
to ash. 
But guided carefully…
contained…
understood…
it can become something else: 
The heat
that pushes people to act.
The light
that shows something was wrong.
The energy
that refuses to let darkness
sit comfortably with itself.
Think of the fires in your life.
What did they light?
What did they burn?
Every fire
has to be lit.
It never begins
as a roaring blaze.
Someone gathers the wood.
Someone strikes the match.
Someone decides
this spark
should exist.
Or sometimes—
without intent—
a fire begins.
A cigarette left too long,
a candle flickering in the quiet,
a forgotten ember
waiting in the dark.
Even these flames—
though unplanned—
still catch.
Still touch the wood.
Still reach for air.
Even accidental sparks
Can change everything.
They can warm a hand,
Or erase a home.
They can light a story,
or turn it to ash.
The fire doesn’t care
about intent.
It answers only
to what it is given.
(There is a part two to this poem. It's being posted immediately after this one <3)

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