I remember looking at bullet holes at the site of the massacre of the beloved queen. Round holes, chipped around the edges on the white cement. I looked at them, symbols of death, screams, pain.
I imagine the sound of bullets firing in movies, blood gushing out from freshly created pores. I imagine children crying, groans of despair, tears of losing the loved.
Bullets never bring happy memories. They even shoot bullets into the air to demand silence.
the bullets marred by the day, are jostled by my praise;
never, ill, be a mister, stashing one dollar bills in my wooden-box vault abounded
in several coveted bed room areas;
instead, ill facet my way into my endeavors, using a cut-throat silver tongue as my endeavors,
i’d take rejoice, once at rest, that I no longer need to bramble into forests of vines and wines
just to get to a simple banana that lingers from a branch and attests organic belief and strength.
There, silken, red, mellifluous curtains spring my inherently-built-gold-binoculars.
Deplored, hardly, I stampede in the direction of shimmer and relief, sparkle
and retreat.
Alas, a group of villagers playing a game of British skittle, I join them, my new family,
I vicariously seek to understand them, as they toss the disc, my way, I leap, and
keep my eyes closed and open when I leave the ground!
my judgment about this new villagers, inscrutable, as always,
though I tuck my inner-musing bray into the well-kept levies, and interlace this desired-bray,
under the rope-sandals that stand fourth with me, this is a new moment, cease it, don’t decease it, I tell myself! I bite a bullet because I see my target!
The bullet shells were still warm and I rolled them around in my hand. The thick smell of steel and blood and smoke filling my head, I stepped over the body and chose to forget where I was.
the pain was emense the bullets had come so fast that he did not know where they came from
he was ever so glad when hands picked him up onto the stretcher saying he’ll make it the bullets had all missed ecept one that hit him in the arm
Bullets – tiny bundles of ammunition – come in many forms. Yes, there are the ones that you load in a gun, although I have no experience with those. They also come in the form of insults and sarcasm shot from a bully’s mouth. Those are the bullets I see shot in my school.
Bullets are my life. They distill everything down into short bites that I can easily digest when I am trying to remember all of the things that I have to remember. Recall doesn’t work when there are too many words on the page. Bullets make it easy. Bullets make it doable.
Bullets are ammo for guns of all shapes and sizes. Some guns take a lot of bullets others only take a few. A lot of guns are used in the military and the army.
As the bullets were flying around me I ducked and ran to the stone wall that was straight in front of me trying to get behind it so I woudnt get hit by any bullets.
bullets are only dangerous when they are used in a gun. Bullets in writing allow us to differentiate our varying ideas and to create lists. That’s what I think about bullets in one
I was hunting and I shot at a deer, but then I ran out of bullets, “Dang Nabbit!” I said.
I ran to get more bullets, but i fell over a dead man. I still ran to get more bullets, then I gave myself a mullet. “Come and get some mum.” I cocked my shotgun and ran to kill the deer. It was like I rocked a stage at a concert. I hunted my heart out. I found the deer and tried to take another shot, but I ran out of bullets again.
Five hundred words of steel,
Shot like bullets from your throat,
Punching holes through all the good things,
That I used to stay afloat,
Dark black water laps beneath me,
I can feel its gurgling breath,
Waiting for the perfect moment,
To drag me down into its depth,
But maybe there is freedom,
In feeling things I had denied,
So I lay down in its icy arms,
And I surrender to the tide.
I remember looking at bullet holes at the site of the massacre of the beloved queen. Round holes, chipped around the edges on the white cement. I looked at them, symbols of death, screams, pain.
I imagine the sound of bullets firing in movies, blood gushing out from freshly created pores. I imagine children crying, groans of despair, tears of losing the loved.
Bullets never bring happy memories. They even shoot bullets into the air to demand silence.
the bullets marred by the day, are jostled by my praise;
never, ill, be a mister, stashing one dollar bills in my wooden-box vault abounded
in several coveted bed room areas;
instead, ill facet my way into my endeavors, using a cut-throat silver tongue as my endeavors,
i’d take rejoice, once at rest, that I no longer need to bramble into forests of vines and wines
just to get to a simple banana that lingers from a branch and attests organic belief and strength.
There, silken, red, mellifluous curtains spring my inherently-built-gold-binoculars.
Deplored, hardly, I stampede in the direction of shimmer and relief, sparkle
and retreat.
Alas, a group of villagers playing a game of British skittle, I join them, my new family,
I vicariously seek to understand them, as they toss the disc, my way, I leap, and
keep my eyes closed and open when I leave the ground!
my judgment about this new villagers, inscrutable, as always,
though I tuck my inner-musing bray into the well-kept levies, and interlace this desired-bray,
under the rope-sandals that stand fourth with me, this is a new moment, cease it, don’t decease it, I tell myself! I bite a bullet because I see my target!
The bullet shells were still warm and I rolled them around in my hand. The thick smell of steel and blood and smoke filling my head, I stepped over the body and chose to forget where I was.
His sleep was filled with nightmares.
His dreams were full of memories.
Screams and burning flesh.
Silver hair and long blades.
Scalpels and greasy glasses.
Bullet holes and forgotten promises.
He would never forget again, no matter how much he wanted to.
the pain was emense the bullets had come so fast that he did not know where they came from
he was ever so glad when hands picked him up onto the stretcher saying he’ll make it the bullets had all missed ecept one that hit him in the arm
bullets kill. i do not like the idea of bullets flying around. Bullets can hurt or help, depending on the situation you are in.
Bullets – tiny bundles of ammunition – come in many forms. Yes, there are the ones that you load in a gun, although I have no experience with those. They also come in the form of insults and sarcasm shot from a bully’s mouth. Those are the bullets I see shot in my school.
hollow and light of the bit of lead I heald in my hand. The key to death was in my hand. I felt powerful.
Bullets are my life. They distill everything down into short bites that I can easily digest when I am trying to remember all of the things that I have to remember. Recall doesn’t work when there are too many words on the page. Bullets make it easy. Bullets make it doable.
The robber in the bank had big gun with a lot bullets straped to his chest as xtra ammo.
Bullets are ammo for guns of all shapes and sizes. Some guns take a lot of bullets others only take a few. A lot of guns are used in the military and the army.
As the bullets were flying around me I ducked and ran to the stone wall that was straight in front of me trying to get behind it so I woudnt get hit by any bullets.
There were three bullets stuck to the target, “Haha! Bullseye!” my little brother exclaimed as he dropped his nerf gun.
guns, the media, 2nd amendment rights, America, politics, wars, bulletproof, criminals, good guys, conceal carry, open carry, death
bullets are only dangerous when they are used in a gun. Bullets in writing allow us to differentiate our varying ideas and to create lists. That’s what I think about bullets in one
I was hunting and I shot at a deer, but then I ran out of bullets, “Dang Nabbit!” I said.
I ran to get more bullets, but i fell over a dead man. I still ran to get more bullets, then I gave myself a mullet. “Come and get some mum.” I cocked my shotgun and ran to kill the deer. It was like I rocked a stage at a concert. I hunted my heart out. I found the deer and tried to take another shot, but I ran out of bullets again.
Five hundred words of steel,
Shot like bullets from your throat,
Punching holes through all the good things,
That I used to stay afloat,
Dark black water laps beneath me,
I can feel its gurgling breath,
Waiting for the perfect moment,
To drag me down into its depth,
But maybe there is freedom,
In feeling things I had denied,
So I lay down in its icy arms,
And I surrender to the tide.