pines all around. baguio. but no one ever smells them anymore. SM just got built around the corner and is clogging up the nose of every other person there. living in or visitng the place. my mom always complains. she used to grow up there. it’s such a shame, i don’t even remember what it smells like. go suck it, SM. go suck it. you ruin everything.
The Pines is a shopping centre located in Elanora, Gold Coast, Australia. It is a very dated shopping centre, known for its patrons of parents, old ladies and trashy high school student. While it is soon to be renovated, it is doubtful that it will become a popular centre
The dappled rays of sunshine poured through the thickets of green leaves, littering the ground with polka dot patterns of light and dark. My feet slipped, and trembled on the uneven ground as I followed the sound of rushing water. The slapping of waves a sound that promised salvation.
Yesterday I told my friend Elise I wouldn’t keep pining for K–I said I didn’t want to be one of those pining girls. Piners? Pines? Either way, I like to think I have more self-sufficiency than to lose myself completely in K, but do I? Liking girls is a lot different than liking boys. For one thing, it’s real…and I might really get my heart broken! Yikes.
smell
(in, out, breathe)
she does.
closes her eyes and
stretches up on the tips of her toes
as if she can rise to green-pointed tips of the earth.
smell
he smiles as he laces her fingers between his
closes his eyes and
breathes in the musky nighttime forest cologne
that colors the air around them.
(in, out, breathe)
they are between pines and lost to the world
belonging only to each other
and the scent of new earth.
smell
(in, out, breathe)
she does.
closes her eyes and
stretches up on the tips of her toes
as if she can rise to green-pointed tips of the earth.
smell
he smiles as he laces her fingers between his
closes his eyes and
breathes in the musky nighttime forest cologne
that colors the air around them.
(in, out, breathe)
they are between pines and lost to the world
belonging only to each other
and the scent of new earth.
The pine trees towered above the pristine lake. Zachary had never seen a such a perfect, storybook place in his life. The trees were the perfectly green, the water was perfectly clear and serene, the fish perfectly visibly and perfectly happy.
It only made sense, he thought, that the gore before him would be perfect, too.
The cattle smooched around in the pines at the back of our property. It was a lovely sunny and warm day and you really couldn’t complain about the day but Zak the farm dog wasn’t having any of this nice sunny lovely weather, no Zak wanted an adventure like racing through waterwall water as it hit the circular catchment below.
You can’t just describe the pines to really feel them. You can’t just write about the forest. You have to experience it. You have to smell the branches in the early dawn. You have to feel the bark between your fingers. You have to pick up a leaf off the ground and crush it in your palm.
The chemical stuff.
How it wafts off the floor.
Reminding you of your shop-keeping place in this world.
Only you don’t own the store houses. And you never will.
Yes, I remember the pines. Only out there, you’re free from someone’s drudgery work. You can feel the electricity in the air, and while it’s not always easy facing unknown elements, I’ll take it over the certain death of my ambition.
rustle. hush. quiet. breathe slow. you have a home in the forest. they whisper beneath your feet. they look like your mother’s eyes. and they smell like safety. there is no darkness here. they feel like security.
Yellow sorcerers, dritinf on the wood of thomorrows days they were above the trees, so many of them, white as ghosts, but they were witches of sorts, they all had cats too, and the casts liked to jump down from their brooms on to the pines below. Crows you awould wouyou would see jump out from them and ilike it was jamgic or something they would all fly away as the casts desecendded, so many black things in the sky, but not the wieetches, they used magic and glewowe in the sky like white seagulls, and the scontrast was bright and new and everyone thought thaerew awas something elese out there athat you could see and be happy with thle like the ornaments of angels and wings and the birds would sing and therir yellow tones would vlfap through the bivration of the cosmsocs and the orange tentacles of insects that we havent heard about where tehre and were wall waent back into the caverns of our minds to fdrift away from real dialogue like this because who knew whtat yryping was so fast and unimproirtant when you’re dtreally just thinking about what you think, like oranges and witches and cats and tyellow busses like ffom Torotor, those pines in theosat story makes me want to cry, those trees that light up the tree that is the mountain side they dbvring the children to life and all of us, so many uof us like the way we sree these animals in our minds but who comes to bfind that we are just a prelfection of them, big beasts and shallow eyeed cats listening and whistling in the night like Garfield, not eating, but sleeping a lot, like cats do, talking to themselves in the pines that the witches thjley them brew, like a big witches dringk a potion for more information they wisnk thand they went south to wehre they weere born like all wtiches tcome sffomr the south and that doesn’t matter much anymore, becuse I wonder if I can edit this swhen it’s somdone befing my fifsr post and all and if I’m actually writing for some time, who en tanters this and when thids time stops whill be aI ways talking to and from the world in a gaze like a snake gazing at its prey ad small fox burying its head in the htall grass not to be seen its snake swivels and drivels and quivers like the ladies to do fof muahmmad ali when hes tboxing and he falls on he is nhkness now there is a poem in mind like a drfting opiece of bflat wood in the ocean breeze athe waves curling around its edges and the thoughts of memories beginning to express themsevles through shapes in the wayer, the old man was afraid that he would never make it home, but the fear hasdn’t reached him yet, the waves cureled about protecting him from this farear, and lastly lhe thjought he would just drown under the ocean, live off the sea weed until his breath gave away, a sunny day it was, but the smile on his face said otherwise, becuse insdeif his heart hye was loneyl, and my fingers are going to cramp up and theyse seixty seconds areen’t seeming to be anwywhere, but don’t care about that, you’ve got wriatin to do, so standf up and shout like a mnad man at the keys you let it all out on the patper, your et thumb going waild on the paspace wabar and the music pbeing playing on the wild casstette tapes that your grandmajuse tst listented to and fell into a sdeep sleep away from all the trouble in her mlives. she painted pines when she waas little, pines and old cabins that she used to li8ve in, swaplaces that she had memories in, stories to trwell, but she didn’t like to paint those stories jshe just like to see the paintings on her walls when they were done, as if the places she had bonece been where all so done, that they would never be similar, or the same stories that she thought whse had in her minds, like she didn’t want anybody else to open the door, so she painted them a,d dn locked them away fbedhing the acyrliccs, in the deep crevasses of the cavnas bordad, she was not bored, but distratcted and unamused bty the wasy she did things in her life. this was all that was left of her. paintings and unamusings like a story untold with the lpillows and feathers in them not soft anymore, they gave up. thaey gave up being nice and the pines and thre trees had no advice for me to but to keep on writing like a human being would, like a man who has fingers and a voice and the dars to herar the pines whisper, the hearts of the trees bouncing uout li9ke cannonballs on fire, this was no trick, it was no carnival enthusiasatisscs man trying to sell you gunys and fireball to get you wasted on the side wheile he steals on all the money from your wallet, no this aws something more3 beautiufl, speactqabular, imaginatble only by those who dare to dream, to think ourtside the boxes of our little fit up society and to sing and move with the musi a thousand ltimes deeper then our lives let us. beauty and deepness.
In the pines, in the pines, where the sun don’t ever shine, I will shiver the whole night through. dead needles and dirty snow. i will waste more time.
Pines like pine trees are like winter time. The smell of the trees and the decorations. Pine cones decorated in peanut butter and bird seed hanging off the pine trees. The light snow on the ground and the heavy coats.
They loomed above me, so that I was like a flea amongst a quiver of arrows. Is there the possibility that these pines could be used so by a being at the nigh of our contemplation? These organic beings merely constructed tools. It puts things into perspective, even by considering the improbable. This forest of pines loses its mystery.
the pines grew straight and tall, branches spread outwards like wide-open arms looking for an embrace, like arms reaching for the sky. the forest critters hustled about at the sound of unknown footsteps.
It’s another restless night. I’m here, you’re there. I’m writing awful poems about you and how wonderful it could be to love you and you’re out being normal somewhere not pining over a girl who’ll never love you.
Even now, sometimes I tell myself that I can hear his voice drifting through the walls of this decomposing house. Doors creak and floorboards squeak, pines rustle restlessly outside and the sun sets sooner, always sooner. I wonder if this is what it’s like to be haunted.
The man sits amongst the remains of his house sobbing at the decay around him. He pines for his dearly departed husband. He misses his touch, his smell, and more importantly his touch.
Yes, touch is the thing he misses the most. The soft caress to his cheek, The bone crushing hugs when his husband was happy. He missed it all.
He hadn’t said I love you as often as his husband deserved. He had deserved to be told every waking second they were together and now it was too late. At least until he followed him into the light.
Her beauty is like the violence of the green green wood, verdant and sharp and so, so dark. The planes of her face are harshness, cut glass, fire-burned arrow tips protruding from her cheeks. She isn’t lovely, not really — it’s more the fact that she knows she’ll never be anything more than this and doesn’t care. There is perseverance and strength in her hard, wooden face, and you cannot help but love her for it. (She smells like pine needles).
The trees are dying one by one. Dreams like this haunt me, fires and sparks, never-ending light. The pathway has disintegrated and I am within the forest now, inside the fire. Pine needles are dry, so dry, they burn around me. The pines have souls, we do not realize, souls that never rest, but god, do they ever burn..
Smelling like a pine tree is great. I like pines. Pine needles are sharp. But I don’t mind. Because pine trees are great. And so is sap. HOORAY. LOL. OH WELL. c: PINE NEEDLESSSS
Canada has many natural resources. From drinking tap water, hills, and trees. Me and my friend went to vacation. I have my dog Buster.
It is summer vacation at our vacation cabin by the really beautiful lake with lots of pine trees.
Me and Therese was here to rest. There are many fishes by the lake. Buster kept on barking on the pines. But I cannot see anything.
Nighttime came and I was looking for my dog. I cannot find him anywhere.
I can smell them as i stand there staring off into the distance. they are all around me. they crunch under my feet and i wish i could bottle up the wonderful scent.
The dark pines outlined the dusky, purple mountains. It was a cold autumn evening–the leaves had started turning colours weeks ago. The air was brisk and chill, but still comfortable. I wished I had talked to her long ago.
Slowly, slowly, slowly
stepping through the forest.
Dim light light surrounds,
fading away with the fall of the star.
Wretch coarses gross as ulcer sore
for the regards of tempest written
As the pest in rugged tempo.
It crosses fores for roughs
And tans the saw in babble
To rub itself on burs –
Thrown backwards –
for the sear to wither.
forests, trees, elves, cones, pining after someone, love,
Pin yourself in nod.
Before your Entertaining System
Starts to smoke
In a transcendent way.
pines all around. baguio. but no one ever smells them anymore. SM just got built around the corner and is clogging up the nose of every other person there. living in or visitng the place. my mom always complains. she used to grow up there. it’s such a shame, i don’t even remember what it smells like. go suck it, SM. go suck it. you ruin everything.
The Pines is a shopping centre located in Elanora, Gold Coast, Australia. It is a very dated shopping centre, known for its patrons of parents, old ladies and trashy high school student. While it is soon to be renovated, it is doubtful that it will become a popular centre
The dappled rays of sunshine poured through the thickets of green leaves, littering the ground with polka dot patterns of light and dark. My feet slipped, and trembled on the uneven ground as I followed the sound of rushing water. The slapping of waves a sound that promised salvation.
Where there was water there was life.
She sits in her room, wondering where it all went wrong. She thought he loved her but he wouldn’t commit so now she just sits alone and pines for him.
Yesterday I told my friend Elise I wouldn’t keep pining for K–I said I didn’t want to be one of those pining girls. Piners? Pines? Either way, I like to think I have more self-sufficiency than to lose myself completely in K, but do I? Liking girls is a lot different than liking boys. For one thing, it’s real…and I might really get my heart broken! Yikes.
While the willows weep
and the other trees sway,
The pine stays strong,
sturdy
The smell of strength wafts through me,
transports me to the woods I played in as a child
Picnics and red riding hood
the wood pines covered the hill on this sleepy summer morning overlooking the bay of Antibes. Behind the pines were lazy couples enjoying the slight
smell
(in, out, breathe)
she does.
closes her eyes and
stretches up on the tips of her toes
as if she can rise to green-pointed tips of the earth.
smell
he smiles as he laces her fingers between his
closes his eyes and
breathes in the musky nighttime forest cologne
that colors the air around them.
(in, out, breathe)
they are between pines and lost to the world
belonging only to each other
and the scent of new earth.
smell
(in, out, breathe)
she does.
closes her eyes and
stretches up on the tips of her toes
as if she can rise to green-pointed tips of the earth.
smell
he smiles as he laces her fingers between his
closes his eyes and
breathes in the musky nighttime forest cologne
that colors the air around them.
(in, out, breathe)
they are between pines and lost to the world
belonging only to each other
and the scent of new earth.
The pine trees towered above the pristine lake. Zachary had never seen a such a perfect, storybook place in his life. The trees were the perfectly green, the water was perfectly clear and serene, the fish perfectly visibly and perfectly happy.
It only made sense, he thought, that the gore before him would be perfect, too.
They stood there, proud and tall, in the face of sure destruction. Like pines against a storm.
The cattle smooched around in the pines at the back of our property. It was a lovely sunny and warm day and you really couldn’t complain about the day but Zak the farm dog wasn’t having any of this nice sunny lovely weather, no Zak wanted an adventure like racing through waterwall water as it hit the circular catchment below.
They tower like soldiers who address their chins to women and children.
You can’t just describe the pines to really feel them. You can’t just write about the forest. You have to experience it. You have to smell the branches in the early dawn. You have to feel the bark between your fingers. You have to pick up a leaf off the ground and crush it in your palm.
The pines outside my window block my view of her house, but I know she’s there. In her room, does she know I’m here in mine? Thinking about her.
The chemical stuff.
How it wafts off the floor.
Reminding you of your shop-keeping place in this world.
Only you don’t own the store houses. And you never will.
Yes, I remember the pines. Only out there, you’re free from someone’s drudgery work. You can feel the electricity in the air, and while it’s not always easy facing unknown elements, I’ll take it over the certain death of my ambition.
rustle. hush. quiet. breathe slow. you have a home in the forest. they whisper beneath your feet. they look like your mother’s eyes. and they smell like safety. there is no darkness here. they feel like security.
Yellow sorcerers, dritinf on the wood of thomorrows days they were above the trees, so many of them, white as ghosts, but they were witches of sorts, they all had cats too, and the casts liked to jump down from their brooms on to the pines below. Crows you awould wouyou would see jump out from them and ilike it was jamgic or something they would all fly away as the casts desecendded, so many black things in the sky, but not the wieetches, they used magic and glewowe in the sky like white seagulls, and the scontrast was bright and new and everyone thought thaerew awas something elese out there athat you could see and be happy with thle like the ornaments of angels and wings and the birds would sing and therir yellow tones would vlfap through the bivration of the cosmsocs and the orange tentacles of insects that we havent heard about where tehre and were wall waent back into the caverns of our minds to fdrift away from real dialogue like this because who knew whtat yryping was so fast and unimproirtant when you’re dtreally just thinking about what you think, like oranges and witches and cats and tyellow busses like ffom Torotor, those pines in theosat story makes me want to cry, those trees that light up the tree that is the mountain side they dbvring the children to life and all of us, so many uof us like the way we sree these animals in our minds but who comes to bfind that we are just a prelfection of them, big beasts and shallow eyeed cats listening and whistling in the night like Garfield, not eating, but sleeping a lot, like cats do, talking to themselves in the pines that the witches thjley them brew, like a big witches dringk a potion for more information they wisnk thand they went south to wehre they weere born like all wtiches tcome sffomr the south and that doesn’t matter much anymore, becuse I wonder if I can edit this swhen it’s somdone befing my fifsr post and all and if I’m actually writing for some time, who en tanters this and when thids time stops whill be aI ways talking to and from the world in a gaze like a snake gazing at its prey ad small fox burying its head in the htall grass not to be seen its snake swivels and drivels and quivers like the ladies to do fof muahmmad ali when hes tboxing and he falls on he is nhkness now there is a poem in mind like a drfting opiece of bflat wood in the ocean breeze athe waves curling around its edges and the thoughts of memories beginning to express themsevles through shapes in the wayer, the old man was afraid that he would never make it home, but the fear hasdn’t reached him yet, the waves cureled about protecting him from this farear, and lastly lhe thjought he would just drown under the ocean, live off the sea weed until his breath gave away, a sunny day it was, but the smile on his face said otherwise, becuse insdeif his heart hye was loneyl, and my fingers are going to cramp up and theyse seixty seconds areen’t seeming to be anwywhere, but don’t care about that, you’ve got wriatin to do, so standf up and shout like a mnad man at the keys you let it all out on the patper, your et thumb going waild on the paspace wabar and the music pbeing playing on the wild casstette tapes that your grandmajuse tst listented to and fell into a sdeep sleep away from all the trouble in her mlives. she painted pines when she waas little, pines and old cabins that she used to li8ve in, swaplaces that she had memories in, stories to trwell, but she didn’t like to paint those stories jshe just like to see the paintings on her walls when they were done, as if the places she had bonece been where all so done, that they would never be similar, or the same stories that she thought whse had in her minds, like she didn’t want anybody else to open the door, so she painted them a,d dn locked them away fbedhing the acyrliccs, in the deep crevasses of the cavnas bordad, she was not bored, but distratcted and unamused bty the wasy she did things in her life. this was all that was left of her. paintings and unamusings like a story untold with the lpillows and feathers in them not soft anymore, they gave up. thaey gave up being nice and the pines and thre trees had no advice for me to but to keep on writing like a human being would, like a man who has fingers and a voice and the dars to herar the pines whisper, the hearts of the trees bouncing uout li9ke cannonballs on fire, this was no trick, it was no carnival enthusiasatisscs man trying to sell you gunys and fireball to get you wasted on the side wheile he steals on all the money from your wallet, no this aws something more3 beautiufl, speactqabular, imaginatble only by those who dare to dream, to think ourtside the boxes of our little fit up society and to sing and move with the musi a thousand ltimes deeper then our lives let us. beauty and deepness.
What happens when I cick that black button?
In the pines, in the pines, where the sun don’t ever shine, I will shiver the whole night through. dead needles and dirty snow. i will waste more time.
In the pines, in the pines, where the sun never shines…
The trains run like snakes through the Pentecostal pines….
My heart goes back, suffocating on the pines in Jacksonville
Pines like pine trees are like winter time. The smell of the trees and the decorations. Pine cones decorated in peanut butter and bird seed hanging off the pine trees. The light snow on the ground and the heavy coats.
They loomed above me, so that I was like a flea amongst a quiver of arrows. Is there the possibility that these pines could be used so by a being at the nigh of our contemplation? These organic beings merely constructed tools. It puts things into perspective, even by considering the improbable. This forest of pines loses its mystery.
the pines grew straight and tall, branches spread outwards like wide-open arms looking for an embrace, like arms reaching for the sky. the forest critters hustled about at the sound of unknown footsteps.
It’s another restless night. I’m here, you’re there. I’m writing awful poems about you and how wonderful it could be to love you and you’re out being normal somewhere not pining over a girl who’ll never love you.
He pines for her night and day
She wishes he would go away
There’s really nothing she can say
To get him to leave her and go away
Even now, sometimes I tell myself that I can hear his voice drifting through the walls of this decomposing house. Doors creak and floorboards squeak, pines rustle restlessly outside and the sun sets sooner, always sooner. I wonder if this is what it’s like to be haunted.
The man sits amongst the remains of his house sobbing at the decay around him. He pines for his dearly departed husband. He misses his touch, his smell, and more importantly his touch.
Yes, touch is the thing he misses the most. The soft caress to his cheek, The bone crushing hugs when his husband was happy. He missed it all.
He hadn’t said I love you as often as his husband deserved. He had deserved to be told every waking second they were together and now it was too late. At least until he followed him into the light.
Shimmering through the blinds stripes
The silvers of light shivered
Quivering slightly in awe of
Something.
A grand something
A something few have seen
Much let admired through its obscure grandeur
Pines.
Her beauty is like the violence of the green green wood, verdant and sharp and so, so dark. The planes of her face are harshness, cut glass, fire-burned arrow tips protruding from her cheeks. She isn’t lovely, not really — it’s more the fact that she knows she’ll never be anything more than this and doesn’t care. There is perseverance and strength in her hard, wooden face, and you cannot help but love her for it. (She smells like pine needles).
The trees are dying one by one. Dreams like this haunt me, fires and sparks, never-ending light. The pathway has disintegrated and I am within the forest now, inside the fire. Pine needles are dry, so dry, they burn around me. The pines have souls, we do not realize, souls that never rest, but god, do they ever burn..
Smelling like a pine tree is great. I like pines. Pine needles are sharp. But I don’t mind. Because pine trees are great. And so is sap. HOORAY. LOL. OH WELL. c: PINE NEEDLESSSS
Canada has many natural resources. From drinking tap water, hills, and trees. Me and my friend went to vacation. I have my dog Buster.
It is summer vacation at our vacation cabin by the really beautiful lake with lots of pine trees.
Me and Therese was here to rest. There are many fishes by the lake. Buster kept on barking on the pines. But I cannot see anything.
Nighttime came and I was looking for my dog. I cannot find him anywhere.
I can smell them as i stand there staring off into the distance. they are all around me. they crunch under my feet and i wish i could bottle up the wonderful scent.
Pines grimes fines limes
they burn they stink they make me think
The lines and dines
all make me want to run its no longer fun
Pines, rinds its all i receive
and I am happy with that. Thanks!
The dark pines outlined the dusky, purple mountains. It was a cold autumn evening–the leaves had started turning colours weeks ago. The air was brisk and chill, but still comfortable. I wished I had talked to her long ago.
Why are we talkin bout pines?