I looked down at my pruned fingers. I’d been in the bath far too long. Blinking my eyes I realized I’d dozed off. After pulling the plug in the tub I sat as the water slowly spun down the drain. Oh no! I thought, thinking of the time. The party!
Oh, I don’t know the word pruned. I know the word prune which is a plum and plums remind me of summer and stealing from prun/plum trees standing at abandoned houses.
His fingers were pruned, as they caressed my skin. Small kisses traced my neck, a peck on the shoulder made me turn to him as I smiled. Kisses. Wet, soapy kisses.
After the business was settled with the people to whom I owed money, I found myself longing for nothing more than the simple pleasures of returning home: my lawn had long since been properly trimmed, and I missed the nights spent on the veranda overlooking the bay. The moonlight that once shined on the waters which lapped at my shore in a sort of quiet metronome had glistened off of the blood spilt by my contemporaries, and in all of their attempts and schemes to do so, they never succeeded in making me one of them – I was never pruned to become a thug. Though they lived in homes more lavish than mine, and lived lives almost assuredly more exciting than what I was willing to contend with, I still had my soul. Ultimately, when the time came for me to make the unspoken decision of whether to fall in with the darkness of eternal wealth and power, I always knew (and I think a few of them did as well) that I couldn’t bear living as they did. No, I wanted to come home – and though my former associates were disappointed, they, to my surprise, understood. They too, at one point in their lives, must have had an estate from which all nostalgia flows from like an unquenchable spring. But while they sacrificed their homesteads, I knew that I needed to return to mine.
I love to see the garden next door. It is one of the things that give me a sense of pride and joy. Apart from the lovely trees and flowers on display, is the well pruned croton fence that surrounds the property.
And wrinkled white straight from the mighty sea of childhood and splash guards that never work anyways. The ducky was valiant in his efforts but nothing could save the fingers. Wrinkly crinkly clammy fingers of death. Rehydrated, saturated prune stumps.
The smallest like a raisin and your palms like raisin cakes. Sweet baby raisin cakes I could keep you forever.
what i know about that is it is a method for cultivate plants, who try to cut a few parts to improve the cultive of the plant. The objetive is make grow and appear better, like in a bonsai. Is actualy a new word for me.
they pruned the sky with large red and yellow skyshears. They were as long as a apartment buildings are tall, they we’re hungry for atmosphere and pruned the sky lower and lower until planes coulnt’ fly in the sky anymore.
Her soft and pruned skin rests with a holy stillness. Her unshakeable love for life affixed such a blissful smile upon her gentle lips. Her eyes are closed, yes, but now she watches over all of those she loved and cared for. Her hands are clasped together as tight as they can be to pray and to thank God for all that he allowed her to experience. A vision of beauty. An example of perfection. An angel on Earth that has returned home.
chopping down the tree like an old lady. Prune? pruned same diff who even cares. she needed some taken off the edges. she was a fat old thing. never liked to be wrong. never reall liked anything to be honest. the word was something that wasnt violent but still didnt sound very nice, much like the old lady.
I have a bad reputation with growing plants. You can say that I have the thumb of death, unlike my grandmother, who has the ability to revive any plant in any shape. Whether its branches are severed, whether it is twisted up and dry, whether it has been through hell and heaven, my grandmother brings it back to life.
It looks like prune, like how someone would look when they come out of the tub for a very long time. When I take long showers, or spend a lot of time in a pool, or wash my hands too long, that’s how I look. And old people can appear like this, i suppose.
She had spent the morning being preened and pruned, pampered and powdered, painted and dressed, flattered and fawned over. She knew that after her wedding day, she would never look this good again; – she would never have the time!
down to the stem.
every rose
that once smiled
no longer reminded me that the sun
will be back.
i could not find the moon tonight.
i am not sure that spring will return.
nothing is certain anymore.
the gardeners carry on, unmoved.
Gaily groaned as she snipped yet another dead rose bud off the bright green bushes. Her father had enlisted her help with the family business earlier that week, and Gaily was already sick of it. But alas, she was stuck until this fantastic garden was perfectly plucked and ready for summertime.
Pruned from the garden was a small rosebud in the exact shape of my heart. I don’t know how I knew it was in the exact shape of my heart, but i did anyway by some supernatural premonition. I cut it into pieces and didn’t feel any different, I guess because metaphors are weaker than the reality of flowers.
a prune is a thing which is a fruit and the word prune is in this word and thats why im writing this dont really know what it means though yea so yeaa.
he slipped out of the water. he looked down at his cold near lifelesss hands that had prunded to the point where they looked like the center of a peach pit.
I stepped back to admire my work. I had pruned the grevilla to a broad, low shape to show off its spikey grey-blue leaves – I thought of my mother and how before she died she’d not managed to spend any time in her garden on the farm, leaving it to the birds and wallabies to make it home.
the slow lips become red and tiny and pruned.. not like the verdant garden hedge being pruned by your Nordic neighbour in his long-johns with his blonde beard and dungarees, as he holds the immense yellow shears with the condensation dripping off the plasticky cold handles while his bristly mustache curls into an enigmatic smile.
Liza only took baths once a month. And sometimes she missed, because of time or priorities. Homework took prescendencce over luxury bathing. But when she did, she stayed in so long that her skin pruned miserably. It curled up in awkward, gross
she detests the children who swim in the river
hair curled from the heat
fingers pruned like old leather
she envies them for the childhood she never had
stripped away mercilessly
by an unforgiving dad
she remembers the bruises, the mottled pain and the flesh
the beer bottles, the slaps through the screen made of mesh
she loathes their smiles, their wide toothy grins
for she was too busy drowning in other people’s sins
she is disgusted of their naivety, their innocence, their purity
but really she just wants to be saved
from the suffocating insecurity
The roses were immaculate, something you’d see out of a gardening magazine; perfect, untouched crimson petals arranged symmetrically, as if the flower was made just to mirror itself. The long, green stem was curved ever so slightly, the thorns standing tall, threatening drops of blood to spill.
However, despite how perfect the flower looked, he stepped back; his eyes widened, and his mouth, lips the same color as the petals, parted in- what? Horror, astonishment? Fear.
“No, no,” he gasped, “no.”
She sputtered as she resurfaced. As soon as she could see with the chlorine in her eyes anymore, she looked at her fingers. And smiled. She giggled. They were all pruned.
The roses are adequately pruned, and the garden sublimely pristine. It’s green enough, gold, blue enough, and white enough to hold its own against the sun, and if you get really close, you can see the honeysuckle drip silver onto the bricks below. People walk through this place every day, and somehow, when they walk out, there’s a bit more color in their cheeks, and their hairs looks a tad bit more like groomed foliage.
Is this what we become when we age? Pruned? Will people see us and think, “Wow, she is so pruned, I hope i don’t end up like her.” OF course, they are just making hopeless wishes, because everyone ends up like this, everyone ages, unless ive been lied to my whole life.
Her skin was pruned from all the years out in the sun working on the farm that her husband inherited. She had grown accustomed to the work as her hands grew stronger and hardier. T
He crept into the garden, his belly on thick pruned stems, his face in fresh ground mulch, his lips dripping with fresh ripped blood; a bloody lip his trophy from the punch that would unknowingly save his life.
I pruned the roses in the backyard of my grandmother’s house. She passed away some time ago, but I still can’t help thinking about it as her house. Even as I live in the room upstairs and to left in the hallway. I remember her scent and the way she spoke.
I looked down at my pruned fingers. I’d been in the bath far too long. Blinking my eyes I realized I’d dozed off. After pulling the plug in the tub I sat as the water slowly spun down the drain. Oh no! I thought, thinking of the time. The party!
Oh, I don’t know the word pruned. I know the word prune which is a plum and plums remind me of summer and stealing from prun/plum trees standing at abandoned houses.
His fingers were pruned, as they caressed my skin. Small kisses traced my neck, a peck on the shoulder made me turn to him as I smiled. Kisses. Wet, soapy kisses.
After the business was settled with the people to whom I owed money, I found myself longing for nothing more than the simple pleasures of returning home: my lawn had long since been properly trimmed, and I missed the nights spent on the veranda overlooking the bay. The moonlight that once shined on the waters which lapped at my shore in a sort of quiet metronome had glistened off of the blood spilt by my contemporaries, and in all of their attempts and schemes to do so, they never succeeded in making me one of them – I was never pruned to become a thug. Though they lived in homes more lavish than mine, and lived lives almost assuredly more exciting than what I was willing to contend with, I still had my soul. Ultimately, when the time came for me to make the unspoken decision of whether to fall in with the darkness of eternal wealth and power, I always knew (and I think a few of them did as well) that I couldn’t bear living as they did. No, I wanted to come home – and though my former associates were disappointed, they, to my surprise, understood. They too, at one point in their lives, must have had an estate from which all nostalgia flows from like an unquenchable spring. But while they sacrificed their homesteads, I knew that I needed to return to mine.
um… yesterday, i met my old friend. so we went to pub and we become pruned.
I love to see the garden next door. It is one of the things that give me a sense of pride and joy. Apart from the lovely trees and flowers on display, is the well pruned croton fence that surrounds the property.
And wrinkled white straight from the mighty sea of childhood and splash guards that never work anyways. The ducky was valiant in his efforts but nothing could save the fingers. Wrinkly crinkly clammy fingers of death. Rehydrated, saturated prune stumps.
The smallest like a raisin and your palms like raisin cakes. Sweet baby raisin cakes I could keep you forever.
what i know about that is it is a method for cultivate plants, who try to cut a few parts to improve the cultive of the plant. The objetive is make grow and appear better, like in a bonsai. Is actualy a new word for me.
The trouble with having lots of rose bushes is keeping them well pruned. if you look after them well they look lovely though.
they pruned the sky with large red and yellow skyshears. They were as long as a apartment buildings are tall, they we’re hungry for atmosphere and pruned the sky lower and lower until planes coulnt’ fly in the sky anymore.
“It’s always good to get pruned”, said Mother Rose.
“See the shabby state the unpruned one’s are in” she continued.
I looked around the garden…
“It is always well to get pruned”, said mother Rose.
“See for yourself the shabby state the unrpuned one’s are” she continued with a shudder.
I look around the garden and was struck by the shabby state it was in.
Her soft and pruned skin rests with a holy stillness. Her unshakeable love for life affixed such a blissful smile upon her gentle lips. Her eyes are closed, yes, but now she watches over all of those she loved and cared for. Her hands are clasped together as tight as they can be to pray and to thank God for all that he allowed her to experience. A vision of beauty. An example of perfection. An angel on Earth that has returned home.
Rest in Peace Juanita Soto
I love you, Abuela.
chopping down the tree like an old lady. Prune? pruned same diff who even cares. she needed some taken off the edges. she was a fat old thing. never liked to be wrong. never reall liked anything to be honest. the word was something that wasnt violent but still didnt sound very nice, much like the old lady.
I have a bad reputation with growing plants. You can say that I have the thumb of death, unlike my grandmother, who has the ability to revive any plant in any shape. Whether its branches are severed, whether it is twisted up and dry, whether it has been through hell and heaven, my grandmother brings it back to life.
It looks like prune, like how someone would look when they come out of the tub for a very long time. When I take long showers, or spend a lot of time in a pool, or wash my hands too long, that’s how I look. And old people can appear like this, i suppose.
She had spent the morning being preened and pruned, pampered and powdered, painted and dressed, flattered and fawned over. She knew that after her wedding day, she would never look this good again; – she would never have the time!
down to the stem.
every rose
that once smiled
no longer reminded me that the sun
will be back.
i could not find the moon tonight.
i am not sure that spring will return.
nothing is certain anymore.
the gardeners carry on, unmoved.
Pruned. She feels pruned. Pruned she feels.
She’s broken.
He told her he loved her, but actions speak louder than words.
She saw him making out aggressively with another girl.
To make matters worse, the girl was her cousin.
She ran away and never came back, swallowing the tears softly streaming down her face.
Goodbye, world.
pruning bushes by the beachside. seven petals blown in the wind brush across my face and pass away out into the sea.
proper are her lips, which curl
with tea cups and jagged mid-west suns.
The knots of city lights akin to
the spider-veins in her heart,
mangled to predation under hints
of coffee-colored fear…
and though she was selected
by man’s index, she decayed
beneath his thumb;
she finally feels what it’s like to wilt.
Gaily groaned as she snipped yet another dead rose bud off the bright green bushes. Her father had enlisted her help with the family business earlier that week, and Gaily was already sick of it. But alas, she was stuck until this fantastic garden was perfectly plucked and ready for summertime.
prepared to be the best..regardless of what they say. Ugly perhaps…not in your eyes . Every moment dreamt came true.
Pruned from the garden was a small rosebud in the exact shape of my heart. I don’t know how I knew it was in the exact shape of my heart, but i did anyway by some supernatural premonition. I cut it into pieces and didn’t feel any different, I guess because metaphors are weaker than the reality of flowers.
a prune is a thing which is a fruit and the word prune is in this word and thats why im writing this dont really know what it means though yea so yeaa.
he slipped out of the water. he looked down at his cold near lifelesss hands that had prunded to the point where they looked like the center of a peach pit.
I stepped back to admire my work. I had pruned the grevilla to a broad, low shape to show off its spikey grey-blue leaves – I thought of my mother and how before she died she’d not managed to spend any time in her garden on the farm, leaving it to the birds and wallabies to make it home.
the slow lips become red and tiny and pruned.. not like the verdant garden hedge being pruned by your Nordic neighbour in his long-johns with his blonde beard and dungarees, as he holds the immense yellow shears with the condensation dripping off the plasticky cold handles while his bristly mustache curls into an enigmatic smile.
Liza only took baths once a month. And sometimes she missed, because of time or priorities. Homework took prescendencce over luxury bathing. But when she did, she stayed in so long that her skin pruned miserably. It curled up in awkward, gross
satisfaction from completing a full days work.
pruned tombule weed rolls across the sera rah taking with it what memories there are out there since mommas left we dpodon’t have any fun anymore.
she detests the children who swim in the river
hair curled from the heat
fingers pruned like old leather
she envies them for the childhood she never had
stripped away mercilessly
by an unforgiving dad
she remembers the bruises, the mottled pain and the flesh
the beer bottles, the slaps through the screen made of mesh
she loathes their smiles, their wide toothy grins
for she was too busy drowning in other people’s sins
she is disgusted of their naivety, their innocence, their purity
but really she just wants to be saved
from the suffocating insecurity
Too much of anything is a bad thing.
Too much air and your lungs explode, too much of a good thing and you become numb to it.
That which sustains us is also that which should be taken in moderation.
Too much water and you’ll get pruned.
Too much down to Earth and you’ll end up mooned.
The roses were immaculate, something you’d see out of a gardening magazine; perfect, untouched crimson petals arranged symmetrically, as if the flower was made just to mirror itself. The long, green stem was curved ever so slightly, the thorns standing tall, threatening drops of blood to spill.
However, despite how perfect the flower looked, he stepped back; his eyes widened, and his mouth, lips the same color as the petals, parted in- what? Horror, astonishment? Fear.
“No, no,” he gasped, “no.”
She sputtered as she resurfaced. As soon as she could see with the chlorine in her eyes anymore, she looked at her fingers. And smiled. She giggled. They were all pruned.
The roses are adequately pruned, and the garden sublimely pristine. It’s green enough, gold, blue enough, and white enough to hold its own against the sun, and if you get really close, you can see the honeysuckle drip silver onto the bricks below. People walk through this place every day, and somehow, when they walk out, there’s a bit more color in their cheeks, and their hairs looks a tad bit more like groomed foliage.
Is this what we become when we age? Pruned? Will people see us and think, “Wow, she is so pruned, I hope i don’t end up like her.” OF course, they are just making hopeless wishes, because everyone ends up like this, everyone ages, unless ive been lied to my whole life.
Her skin was pruned from all the years out in the sun working on the farm that her husband inherited. She had grown accustomed to the work as her hands grew stronger and hardier. T
He crept into the garden, his belly on thick pruned stems, his face in fresh ground mulch, his lips dripping with fresh ripped blood; a bloody lip his trophy from the punch that would unknowingly save his life.
I pruned the roses in the backyard of my grandmother’s house. She passed away some time ago, but I still can’t help thinking about it as her house. Even as I live in the room upstairs and to left in the hallway. I remember her scent and the way she spoke.