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Im not gonna lie, I saw the word penis before I noticed it was pins. Does this make me a pervert? Or simply another casualty of the hypersexualized identity society has forced upon me? Still, Penis and pins should never be in the same sentence with a verb in between them. Things could get dangerous.
By Ruben URL on 04.09.2012
She kept her wits in a bottle,
While he kept gin in his bottle,
both famous since they drank from a bottle
the drunkard and temptress
By Lord Jim URL on 04.09.2012
and needles, that’s what I felt after sitting on the bench with Jayden on my lap. BUt the game was sooo worth the pain. Tammie’s team took the lead in the final 30 seconds and it was awesome! I am so glad I made it here today. I almost didn’t come, because of my writing deadlines, but Jason insisted. I need to give him a big hug when we get home!
By judyb URL on 04.09.2012
pins and needles?? the kind of pins that you stick on your coat? Like the one’s your mom wears to every football game? pin is also a wrestling move!
By katie on 04.09.2012
She kept her wits in a bottle,
While he drank gin out of a bottle,
both famous since they drank from the bottle
the drunkard and spinster…
Pins & needles, and all these things that are holding me together & keeping me from tearing apart, from ripping out of my skin as something that no longer belongs in a body. Something that no longer belongs captured in flesh.
By mariana URL on 04.09.2012
Deep, burning; pins to me as I wouldn’t ever to you. Shallow cold, see me through. Conquer.
By Bill Ryan on 04.09.2012
It was like pins were pricking his feet. He was cold and tired and the road in the distance just kept going. He wondered if I he could make it. He couldn’t bare to walk anymore. Each step was painful, each breath causing an ache. But he couldn’t stop, if he stopped it would be certain death. One foot and then another. Just one more. One more.
By Brittface URL on 04.09.2012
Pins and needles. The feeling you get when anxiety takes your heart in a firm grip. The loss of feeling, of being disconnected. Prickly, and painful. But refreshing at the same time. Pain is real, pain means you’re still you. You’re still here. Yeah.
By Khitters URL on 04.09.2012
With Terrifying accuracy, he could throw a pin across the room and have it stick in the wall. It was like watching a miniature knife throwing circus act in my living room. I’d toss a schred of newspaper in the air and find it magically stuck to the wall a millisecond later. Since I couldn’t see the actual pin flying through the air, the paper seemed to change course magnetically, a sight I’ve never really experienced before or since.
By Frank on 04.09.2012
adjust to any kind of environment
By Madhuri Jindal on 04.09.2012
Ah, pins. My secret shame. I keep so many hidden in my drawers, like secret treasures, just for me. All for me. And me only.
No one touches the pins of mine.
By Quinis URL on 04.09.2012
safety pins. safety pins holding her together so she wont just float away. these pins are keeping her grounded in a sense, but they will never stop her from drifting with her mind. no matter how many safety pins close up her body, she will never stop drifting. and it seems contradicting, for even though the key word is ‘safety’ she feels anything but safe. perhaps they should really be called unsafety pins. or rather unsavable. insavable? who knows. its not even a real fucking word.
she’ll try her hardest to rid of these so called safety pins. but somehow, no matter what, they will always be there to hold her back. keeping her from the wondrous thrill of risks. which really is safe, in my opinion;to broaden your horizon, take some risks. who would want to be in the same spot for eternity anyhow. fuck safety pins.
By Tas URL on 04.09.2012
I get pins and needles every time I try to meditate. My feet begin to fall asleep and it completely takes me out of it. i know it’s mind over matter, and that I must ignore it and continue on with my practice but my circulation sucks.
By Sarah on 04.09.2012
They were pinned beneath the glass never to fly again. Relics of an era, I wonder if their native lands have missed them.
By HelenGrant URL on 04.09.2012
I’ve always been one to poke pins in things. you’d think it would deflate the problem but instead it only becomes infected and swells up, turns a bright red. not just bright but a deep red, like looking at your own crimson blood on a clean surface and watch as it dries. I forget my type, never bothered to give blood, there are other people care more about my fellow man than me. I pulled my wrist back and wiggled my fingers to see how much I could get out. A good amount, until I started to get tunnel vision. I remembered the first girl I kissed, then the second. They were young and stupid and I was a smooth talker. I remembered my longest relationship then forgot her name. told her I loved her at some point and I thought I did but was wrong. We’re all wrong some of the time, so we come back with a quip and laugh but no one joins, can’t win them all.
By joshuapaul URL on 04.09.2012
pins are use to pins some papers and cloths when needed , it is more useful to women than man, women uses pins for lots of things and even
By ajit URL on 04.09.2012
John cracks an eye open and stifles a yawn through his nose, getting a lungful of Sherlock’s sweet, familiar scent. The stubborn detective has managed to pilfer John’s right arm in the middle of the night, and has trapped it under his chest, hugging it firmly to himself. John lets his nose rest in the dark curls for a moment more before gently nudging at Sherlock’s shoulder with his free arm. A deep-voiced moan of disapproval makes itself heard from somewhere near John’s shoulder, and the grip on his arm becomes fractionally tighter. Though at this point, John wouldn’t notice anyway, as he has lost all feeling in the appendage sometime in the last three hours. Another firm nudge at the bony shoulder, and Sherlock gently digs his fingernails into John’s arm before reluctantly rolling back onto his side, freeing John’s arm in the process.
John curls the stiff limb up into the air and in every which direction, shuddering a bit as the pins and needles of circulation trickle their way down to his fingertips. When the pale color has returned to a state of normality, John tucks his wrist in against his chest (to prevent further thievery) and rolls back over towards Sherlock. He is greeted by a long, bony back curled against his general direction. John scoots in closer and noses his way past a few curls to plant a soft kiss against the lobe of Sherlock’s ear, sneaking his left arm around the diminutive waist to pull his partner closer for warmth.
By floppybelly URL on 04.09.2012
She hated pins. She hated pins and neddles. She hated everyone.
By Kathia Loyzaga on 04.09.2012
pins and needles are nothing compared to the feeling of you leaving (we held on to each other for so long I could no longer feel my arms). You left and I stayed and it’s been almost six years now. please, come back.
By mieli on 04.10.2012
Sherlock is still not entirely used to the idea of going to bed with John. It’s warm and inviting, by all means, but it is and has always been John’s personal sanctum. Not that Sherlock ever was barred from intruding on the doctor’s privacy, but he took seclusion into the upstairs area as a desire for some, which was sometimes respected. It was a strange concept, then, that Sherlock be tugged into this space as well, granted access without words.
Sherlock only finally feels that he belongs when John pins him to the mattress with a shy smile and a fierce blush. A gentle kiss to the pale skin over the larynx becomes a gentle bite. MINE, it proclaims silently, as John’s shoulder starts to give out on him and he lowers his weight carefully down over Sherlock’s frame. The ever-thoughtful doctor is certain to leave room for breathing, and is rewarded with a warm breeze across his scalp, followed by a firm hug around his chest. Cold fingers weasel their way under John’s tee shirt to steal his warmth, and he parts from Sherlock’s chest just long enough to reach back and pull the comforter over them both.
By floppybelly URL on 04.10.2012
Pins and needles, breaking my skin. More than just a prod, but actually piercing into me. Something that isn’t quite blood leaks from me, and it tastes like a symphony.
Would that I could tear myself completely open, and hear it in its fullness.
By Josh E URL on 04.10.2012
Again? How long must I endure this free restriction. Liberty is imprisoning, and my very effort to free myself from restraints becomes the shackles I place about my own ankles.
Sanity is insanity, and in rationale I am losing my mind, held down by these furious pins and bolts.
John shuffles into the kitchen in his bathrobe and slippers, greeted by the sound of chirping birds, and the sight of Sherlock hunched over the kitchen table. “I said, could you hand me a couple of pins, John?”
John only shakes his head with a little smile, too weary to argue that he hadn’t been in the room to hear the request. He instead reaches into the pin box at the end of the table and delicately places two of them into Sherlock’s outstretched palm, and heads to the stove to put the kettle on. Sherlock stretches back for a moment to survey his work. The iridescent insect wings pinned to the cork-board glisten in the morning sun, along with the few lines of silver which have worked their way into Sherlock’s curls.
“You know, Sherlock,” John murmurs affectionately as he places a steaming mug of tea by the beekeeper’s side, “Most people only put this kind of effort into a display of butterflies.”
“Hm. Yes. Dull.” Sherlock reaches for the jar of honey in the center of the table and dollops a drop into his mug. “Butterflies have nothing going for them but their looks. Bees are far more efficient and productive. And besides, look at the differences here between the honey bee, the bumblebee, and the carpenter bee! Fascinating, isn’t it? And that’s just the workers!”
John only smiles and claps a gentle grip on Sherlock’s shoulders. He is content to see Sherlock so absorbed in his work, and leaves the ex-detective to it. Another shipment of Hamish-Holmes Honey was due, and the stock wasn’t going to collect itself.
I waited. This molded plastic chair is a bit too close to the ground. I waited. The woman next to me is using a magazine to hold her sneezes. I waited.
By Christopher Robin URL on 04.10.2012
How many pins do we have in the couch cushions? I remember they fell there last week, but I’m pretty sure one just poked me. Still, it’s kind of nice to know that not everything is perfect in my small and very organized apartment. Maybe I’ll leave the pins there for a while.
By Laura URL on 04.10.2012
Thumb tacks. Safety pins. Push pins. I couldn’t get enough; I was an addict, and Office Depot was my dealer. I had to lick every single pin that I could get my hands on. It was the sweet, metallic tang that I adored the most. They were sensual, sexy, even; the greasiness of the brass, the smooth click of plastic, rubbing against my teeth. The safety pins were best because, well, they were safe. Until I swallowed one.
By vhee URL on 04.10.2012
The pins scattered to the floor as I ripped the half sewn dress from the machine and tossed it to the ground. What was the use? No one was ever going to ask me to the dance anyway. I’d be better off knitting a pair of seat pants for the rest of lonely existence.
By april93 URL on 04.10.2012
i had lots of hairpins and i don’t know where they have gone. i haven’t actively thrown them away. the collection of pins corresponded with the history of the length of my hair. now i’m letting it grow, and wondering where these pins went, and what pins i had.
By kaorita on 04.10.2012
pins are very thin and madeup of matels. they used to put hole in papers and doing pranks with friend so we all use this thing daily. We use it as a bunch and make kids thier toys as well. so are we have fun with pins.
By Parveen on 04.10.2012
and i couldn’t find anything interesting to say one day when i laid backward staring at the glass ceiling when the rain came down like pins. they made little noises which made the skin on my back prickle and you were there too, but i think that is what made my skin prickle more when i think about it. it was a day for rain but it wasn’t a sad rainy day.
By Katia URL on 04.10.2012
The people at the bowling alley honored the visiting cavemen by exchanging the ordinary bowling pins for ones made out of meat.
By Jeff Goodman URL on 04.10.2012
I had pins and needles…I couldn’t help it. All the times I said I wouldn’t feel like this but the time had finally rolled round and despite my best efforts I felt the same as everyone else. I was scared.
By zebra URL on 04.10.2012
See these pins? They have walked long and far. They’ve lasted the distance. Made do with tired feet and broken heart. Kept on going. Journeymen. Unrelenting. I don’t care what you say. These legs have legs.
By Laura N URL on 04.10.2012
pins and stripes and pans and staples stand on the desk of the servant modecai as he sleeps in the dungeon and pees off the balcony of nether you mind and nether you will the way of the wind of the north to the south of nothing.
By rozma URL on 04.10.2012
Pins are sharp and spikY. They are not friendly, like Casper . They hate needles as they have similar personalities which clash . They Mostly live in cork with most settling in the board area.
By Annamae Muldowney on 04.10.2012
when my grandmother used to hem my dresses by pinning the bottom, she would always have me chew gum, it was safer that way, she said.
By Robin on 04.10.2012
pins and needles, the feeling i hate to get in my feet after sitting in the same position for far too long completely absorbed in a fantastic book. however, those pins and needles will not stop me from reading for hours on end when i get the chance to. it’s my favorite pastime, pins or not.
By Kate on 04.10.2012
pins and needles
i feel a prick
pins and needles
i feel it coming
pins and needles
pins and needles
what do i have to do
for me not to step
on these pins and needles
pins and needles
pins and needles.
By silbs URL on 04.10.2012
Like someone has dropped a thousand pins in the back of my head, I trembled in pain under the blankets with cold sweat on my fragile fingers. I hugged my knees with clenched fists, oppressing the agony. The warmth provided was necessary, and the weather wasn’t looking bad either. Yet something’s causing the cold. And when I sought to ascertain what it was, I thought that maybe it was my heart. Maybe it was what caused the painful sleepless nights, and the shivering of my own frangible self.
By Zeoru on 04.10.2012
a division of Identity Crisis, Inc.