We heard the sirens and Sarah ran like the wind, leaving me awkwardly looking at her mother and standing on the sidewalk. I finally caught up to her around the corner. A tar truck that was fixing a roof had caught fire and rolled into the cement driveway. Dozens of people stood around watching it burn…
I remember in first grade when I fell. I fell hard on the scrapy, gray cement. I landed on my tiny 6 year old hands, and a rock went through my hand. It was the first time I had experienced that immense pain since I had been alive. To this day, I still am fearful about the cement.
Cement. My feet are planted into the cement. Like a rose. I grow out of the concrete. I grow. I grow. I learn. I expand. Like a bubble. I spread my wings and fly. I spread. I am a mess. I am chaos. I am the stars and the moon. I swallow. I swallow your lies. I eat. I ingest. I digest. I swirl between faith and doubt. My feet are planted into the cement. I break free of the stone. I break. I crack open. I melt. I am open. And its hard to remain pure. When I feel everyone. Since I was a little girl, I always felt so much. I cry watching the tv. Watching the news. I cry. I breakdown. I am a raw woman in a disguse of fuck you’s and paint. Pink paint on my toes. My hair in curlers. I am a raw. I am raw. My flesh holds secrets. I am not perfect and I have tried to be perfect my whole life. The way I wrote. The way I held my pen. I always wished I had blonde hair and blue eyes. The boys would tell me I was too skinny. The girls would not invite me to their bench for lunch. “You’re not welcome here,” she said. Her name was Vanessa. She had long brown hair and long eyelashes. She smacked her gum when she chewed. Her uniform skirt was shorter than it was supposed to be. I could feel the heat of the sun burn into my arms as I held my lunch tray. We stared at each other in the outdoor lunch area. Kids laughing. All I could feel was the weight of not belonging. I was discarded like the crumpled brown lunch bags on the floor. I nodded my head, and walked towards the empty table. I never felt so alone. And desperate. I was desperate for connection. I am desperate. I crave connection. I’m hungry. I need. I need to know that my life means something. I assign myself the meaning. Or maybe it’s given to me and I don’t understand it’s code. The many layers of an onion. And I as I cut into the onion I cry. Maybe that’s what it so painful to go and reveal the many layers the cover my core. Fuck. I cut. I dig. I burn. I reach. I reach for my mom when I’m scared, but she’s not here anymore. Only a ghost. I long to press my fingertips against hers. I long. I yearn. I beg. I bang. I talk loud. I want to be heard. I want flow. I want dignity. I want dignity. I want to be respected for just being human. I have bowed my head too long. It’s one thing to be humble, it’s other to disregard myself. To make myself small. To confine myself into a box. A cardbox box. A black box. Funeral. Death. I don’t want to die small. I don’t want anything from anybody anymore. I just want to be okay with me. And that is okay to spill and be messy. That it is okay to make mistakes. To color outside the fucken lines. To wear pink and yellow and red and blue and polka dots. I am so tired of fucken rules. I am so tired. I am. I am. That’s it. I am here. I am now. And each moment is a miracle. So many things have to collide and take place to sustain this life I am breathing through. Plants yearn for the sun. They yearn for water. Nutrition. I yearn for a hug. A truthful connection. “And maybe” she said. “Perfume.” She held the perfume bottle out to me. The glass bottle fit into the palm of my hand. Sarah had soft skin, red cheeks, and blue eyes. She was hopeful and full of mystery. Her red dress did not match her face. It was past midnight. I felt dizzy from dancing. The sounds of the Brooklyn rave still echoing in my ears. We were in her cheap and bare apartment on 1st ave and 12th street. “I don’t wear perfume, I like my stink.” I said. She smiled. I cried. She held me tight. I could barely breath, but at least I felt free.
eric sat on the hard surface, his knees scratched and blood just beginning to pool at the surface. his helmet was dented and his handlebars crooked, but at least he was alive, his mom told him. this was the second time eric had seen the creature that spooked him and he
all the pictures in the bar, all cemented into the wall
with fame and friends all gathered in time,
Kobe and John wall,
a venturist walks in alone but sets his own tone
leaves with a broad that’s spectuclar,
an easy bone,
now the world his throne because he knew
that friends can be made,
as easy as butter melting in summer tree shade!
gray wet until it dries
you can get stuck in it
you leave marks in it
it stays until removed very forcibly
except sometimes it erodes over long periods of time
kids write their names in it
The foot imprint stood out from the otherwise blank canvas of ‘London Pavement’ like a tiger would in a sea of mice. Jake wrinkled his nose, and, after having a brief talk with himself, decided against calling the detective.
I feel like my future is being cemented in front of me. Like I can’t do a think to stop it. I really want to stay here, make the choices I want, and yet it’s all becoming too late. On the road of life the construction workers named lack of courage, and unfortunate change are cementing my future, my LIFE into place, and I doubt there’s much I can do to change any of that.
the cement was cold under her cheek as she lay there, exhausted beyond belief. there wasn’t much time, but she couldn’t bring herself to get up from that place.
Today i walked past a construction area and i since i was concentrating so much on how there were building it that i stepped in some cement and i was probably there for an hour.
The roads were cement, the sidewalks were cement, and her thick skull was sure as damn hard as cement. She wasn’t exactly the type of person you could tell what to do. Stubborn, is what she was— hard headed, hence the cement reference. It’d take a whole lot of effort to crack a fracture into the sidewalk, and it took the same amount of effort to try and talk that girl into something she didn’t feel like doing.
The cement was hot beneath her barefoot, but the pain was comforting in its own way. As a spike of excitement cut through her body she felt herself rise to the balls of her feet and off she went. Dashing into the horizon, purposefully wandering.
The cement was hot, beneath her feet. She could feel the hot sun pounding on her, where was she? What had she done? More importantly, who had she become? The whole night before was a blur, she wasn’t sure what had happened, until now. Now, she knew.
She was trapped here, in this globe. Something about it was strangely familiar. Some how, it smelled familiar, the hot salty air, tasted familiar. She was positive, she was home. Hell to be exact.
The cement was hot, beneath her feet. She could feel the hot sun pounding on her, where was she? What had she done? More importantly, who had she become? The whole night before was a blur, she wasn’t sure what had happened, until now. Now, she knew.
The cement was cool, rough, and it had scraped the better part of the lower half of her face. She couldn’t believe the drugs had hit her this hard, they never do, she always take them so sparingly and carefully, but today she must have faltered, and she hit the cement because of it. She couldn’t put one foot in front of the other, she couldn’t even lift her head up off the ground. There she lied stuck, wondering what this life was all about.
The cement is hard, cold under my skin. reminds me that I’m alive. that not all things have to be soft to be comforting. its real and brings me to my senses.
We heard the sirens and Sarah ran like the wind, leaving me awkwardly looking at her mother and standing on the sidewalk. I finally caught up to her around the corner. A tar truck that was fixing a roof had caught fire and rolled into the cement driveway. Dozens of people stood around watching it burn…
I remember in first grade when I fell. I fell hard on the scrapy, gray cement. I landed on my tiny 6 year old hands, and a rock went through my hand. It was the first time I had experienced that immense pain since I had been alive. To this day, I still am fearful about the cement.
Cement. My feet are planted into the cement. Like a rose. I grow out of the concrete. I grow. I grow. I learn. I expand. Like a bubble. I spread my wings and fly. I spread. I am a mess. I am chaos. I am the stars and the moon. I swallow. I swallow your lies. I eat. I ingest. I digest. I swirl between faith and doubt. My feet are planted into the cement. I break free of the stone. I break. I crack open. I melt. I am open. And its hard to remain pure. When I feel everyone. Since I was a little girl, I always felt so much. I cry watching the tv. Watching the news. I cry. I breakdown. I am a raw woman in a disguse of fuck you’s and paint. Pink paint on my toes. My hair in curlers. I am a raw. I am raw. My flesh holds secrets. I am not perfect and I have tried to be perfect my whole life. The way I wrote. The way I held my pen. I always wished I had blonde hair and blue eyes. The boys would tell me I was too skinny. The girls would not invite me to their bench for lunch. “You’re not welcome here,” she said. Her name was Vanessa. She had long brown hair and long eyelashes. She smacked her gum when she chewed. Her uniform skirt was shorter than it was supposed to be. I could feel the heat of the sun burn into my arms as I held my lunch tray. We stared at each other in the outdoor lunch area. Kids laughing. All I could feel was the weight of not belonging. I was discarded like the crumpled brown lunch bags on the floor. I nodded my head, and walked towards the empty table. I never felt so alone. And desperate. I was desperate for connection. I am desperate. I crave connection. I’m hungry. I need. I need to know that my life means something. I assign myself the meaning. Or maybe it’s given to me and I don’t understand it’s code. The many layers of an onion. And I as I cut into the onion I cry. Maybe that’s what it so painful to go and reveal the many layers the cover my core. Fuck. I cut. I dig. I burn. I reach. I reach for my mom when I’m scared, but she’s not here anymore. Only a ghost. I long to press my fingertips against hers. I long. I yearn. I beg. I bang. I talk loud. I want to be heard. I want flow. I want dignity. I want dignity. I want to be respected for just being human. I have bowed my head too long. It’s one thing to be humble, it’s other to disregard myself. To make myself small. To confine myself into a box. A cardbox box. A black box. Funeral. Death. I don’t want to die small. I don’t want anything from anybody anymore. I just want to be okay with me. And that is okay to spill and be messy. That it is okay to make mistakes. To color outside the fucken lines. To wear pink and yellow and red and blue and polka dots. I am so tired of fucken rules. I am so tired. I am. I am. That’s it. I am here. I am now. And each moment is a miracle. So many things have to collide and take place to sustain this life I am breathing through. Plants yearn for the sun. They yearn for water. Nutrition. I yearn for a hug. A truthful connection. “And maybe” she said. “Perfume.” She held the perfume bottle out to me. The glass bottle fit into the palm of my hand. Sarah had soft skin, red cheeks, and blue eyes. She was hopeful and full of mystery. Her red dress did not match her face. It was past midnight. I felt dizzy from dancing. The sounds of the Brooklyn rave still echoing in my ears. We were in her cheap and bare apartment on 1st ave and 12th street. “I don’t wear perfume, I like my stink.” I said. She smiled. I cried. She held me tight. I could barely breath, but at least I felt free.
Cement shows the strength of wildflowers to push through its surface, finding hidden cracks.
eric sat on the hard surface, his knees scratched and blood just beginning to pool at the surface. his helmet was dented and his handlebars crooked, but at least he was alive, his mom told him. this was the second time eric had seen the creature that spooked him and he
all the pictures in the bar, all cemented into the wall
with fame and friends all gathered in time,
Kobe and John wall,
a venturist walks in alone but sets his own tone
leaves with a broad that’s spectuclar,
an easy bone,
now the world his throne because he knew
that friends can be made,
as easy as butter melting in summer tree shade!
gray wet until it dries
you can get stuck in it
you leave marks in it
it stays until removed very forcibly
except sometimes it erodes over long periods of time
kids write their names in it
lkjadshfjhldshfjkhdlskjfhaslkjfhjkahfdsfhjkfhasfhhjfadshfjkhdfkdshjadhsfjhdfadhfjhdfjskahf
The foot imprint stood out from the otherwise blank canvas of ‘London Pavement’ like a tiger would in a sea of mice. Jake wrinkled his nose, and, after having a brief talk with himself, decided against calling the detective.
I feel like my future is being cemented in front of me. Like I can’t do a think to stop it. I really want to stay here, make the choices I want, and yet it’s all becoming too late. On the road of life the construction workers named lack of courage, and unfortunate change are cementing my future, my LIFE into place, and I doubt there’s much I can do to change any of that.
the cement was cold under her cheek as she lay there, exhausted beyond belief. there wasn’t much time, but she couldn’t bring herself to get up from that place.
Today i walked past a construction area and i since i was concentrating so much on how there were building it that i stepped in some cement and i was probably there for an hour.
Am I using the very best cement for the foundation of my sons’ formative years? This is the material used to seal and establish the inmost workings.
The roads were cement, the sidewalks were cement, and her thick skull was sure as damn hard as cement. She wasn’t exactly the type of person you could tell what to do. Stubborn, is what she was— hard headed, hence the cement reference. It’d take a whole lot of effort to crack a fracture into the sidewalk, and it took the same amount of effort to try and talk that girl into something she didn’t feel like doing.
The tiles came up like the rotten bark of a felled tree.
The cement was hot beneath her barefoot, but the pain was comforting in its own way. As a spike of excitement cut through her body she felt herself rise to the balls of her feet and off she went. Dashing into the horizon, purposefully wandering.
The cement was hot, beneath her feet. She could feel the hot sun pounding on her, where was she? What had she done? More importantly, who had she become? The whole night before was a blur, she wasn’t sure what had happened, until now. Now, she knew.
She was trapped here, in this globe. Something about it was strangely familiar. Some how, it smelled familiar, the hot salty air, tasted familiar. She was positive, she was home. Hell to be exact.
The cement was hot, beneath her feet. She could feel the hot sun pounding on her, where was she? What had she done? More importantly, who had she become? The whole night before was a blur, she wasn’t sure what had happened, until now. Now, she knew.
The cement was cool, rough, and it had scraped the better part of the lower half of her face. She couldn’t believe the drugs had hit her this hard, they never do, she always take them so sparingly and carefully, but today she must have faltered, and she hit the cement because of it. She couldn’t put one foot in front of the other, she couldn’t even lift her head up off the ground. There she lied stuck, wondering what this life was all about.
The cement is hard, cold under my skin. reminds me that I’m alive. that not all things have to be soft to be comforting. its real and brings me to my senses.
What does cement means?