High strung
So young
Head uplifted
From all things restrained I have drifted
Wild and free
It’s all meant to be
There are no mistakes
No need for breaks
Flying at the speed of light
I’ll live life reckless, that’s right
High strung is something I used to be. Pearls strung around my neck is something I’ve never known. But never wanted to know, really. I prefer white gold. And these days I’m not high strung or even strung out. Just calm and content, I don’t need the pearls or the gold.
Many criticize me because I have never been high; I have always been a “goody-goody.” Although, drugs have never been my choice of addiction, my experience may be more similar than most would assume. You lose a clear frame of mind, you go through withdrawals, and quite possibly put yourself in harms way; this was my story. However, when its you going through this, it feels completely different when it’s someone else addicted to you. Guilt haunts your every step as you reminisce everyday spent together and what could have been done differently to avoid the situation; but, in reality, you can’t avoid it. Certain personality traits does not allow for this to be avoided and then you’re left doing to them exactly what he or she did to you. Break their heart.
I take up my cross and bear all…
My powers are nothing to what stands against me.
I’m not strung up on weakness,
I stand before it, stucco and frail, waiting to kill what stands before me.
Strung , well it doesn’t just have one meaning , I mean there can be a world of a difference between just two . He strung the gentle chords of his guitar to produce the sweetest melodies heard by man. He strung on to the voice of his lover , like nothing else had mattered .
She was so far gone, so high up in these false clouds.
Every day, waiting for something. Waiting for a sign, waiting for him.
So far gone,
she couldn’t see how far she was about to fall.
You’re strung with the thinnest of threads, and yet you hold on with all your grip. The fraying cotton like butter in your hands, no traction for grip. Why do you keep trying, is it so scary to let go?
Strung up on a pole, dancing in the snow, jumping round and laughing…
Strung up in a hole, jumping on the snow, dancing round and laughing…
Sometimes rhymes are the most disgusting things on the planet. Sometimes I don’t know where the songwriters come up with these things. The song referred to a young man in wartime, and it was not pretty. Not pretty at all.
Strung out on fog. The fog collects in the throat and the lungs. It clogs the nose, floats up into the brain. The fog is blinding. The affected person eventually collapses and cannot get up off of the floor. The affected person will moan and stretch out his or her hands out towards the sky and will weep and claim that they have no knowledge of their identity.
“Get out of here, crackie!” Harold cringed, stunned out of his frantic scramble to grasp the quarter under the vending machine. The fall from Wall Street to looking for spare change on the floor to supply his insatiable addiction was over. He’d hit rock bottom.
She raised the fiddle, strung just this morning, and bowed through a few tunes to warm up. The pub had gone oddly silent, without even a whisper, a snog or a clink of glasses to interrupt the playing.
“Do tell us you’re staying a while?” said one of the men nearby.
“If you don’t mind,” she replied.
Three pints of Galway Pradesh Stout appeared before her, so fast she couldn’t tell who from.
“Mind?” The man shook his head. “We’d be honored.”
The fox’s leg was strung tightly to the fence. It desperately gnawed at its paw, sweating, panting, unable to bite free. It wriggled, squirmed and writhed, to no avail.
She strung the line between the two poles. This time it would be different. This time, no matter who protested, she was determined to hang up her laundry. What kind of law was this anyway, that prohibited the hanging of your laundry. It was so much better than using your dryer.
there is no view worth seeing
with the ground stitched
to my feet.
cut the threads and let me
strain my eyes
crane my neck
stand tall until my toes bleed.
until my face turns sunset-purple
until the hurricane in the distance
turns into a metaphor for the air
i’m missing; i don’t care,
the world is beautiful from up here.
bind my wrists in a mockery of wings.
baby, i’ll hang from your noose
any day of the week.
I was so strung out on coke that I lost all perception of time and internal thoughts. Sure, I was coherent, but my emotions were built into nothing more than an inebriated game of Jenga. I wish I didn’t give up so easily, but when I go on that ride with the first blow, giving up becomes effortless.
We had been inseparable since we met. All 10 of us. How often can anyone say they found their soul mate? Let alone ten? With time, our lives took us in different directions but, we always made sure to reunite at least once a year.
She strung the beads on the coated wire. Each one sliding beneath her fingertips up the delicate sheath, taking their place in her design. One that sparkles, one that shines, a bit of shimmer. a tiny dangle, all working together to create a symmetry. Once complete this unique circle will offer adornment, beauty, and protection.
The oxen cart was strung from the tree, hanging, swinging slightly with a creaking noise. How did it get there? Ah, my boy, that is a very good question. You see, noone knows how it got there. One day it wasn’t there and the next it mysteriously appeared and it is one of those things in heaven and earth that noone can explain.
The cart is small, wooden, tan brown, rustic, old. Perhaps it belonged to a circus at some point in time, long long ago. Royal blue paint peeling from the sides in sunworn strips. Ancient red metallic wheels bent, twisted, rusted the colour of maple leaves in late fall.
You took me and said
I could not be
lightly strung
so you grabbed me
and wrapped me
as tight
as you fucking could
around your finger
and I think if I got away
I’d come back and asked
to be yours
again.
There were thousands of cards strung around the room. As she looked closely, they were all photos from her childhood. Thousands of them. Memories dangling in the air that would make her birthday party interesting, as well as fun.
Out on a line, the colorfully dressed performer seemed to hover high in the air. He was talented to precariously balance on that crusted rope. The audience was caught in suspense.
I sat trapped within my mothers womb, my veins like roots, strung tightly to the flesh of our placenta. I could feel the walls of her body enclosing around me, wringing at my sides and bathing me in bloody tides. There was nothing but the red of this blood and the black of this maternal cage – but as she pushed me closer to the bright, white light I saw these colours flicker and flash like the erratic glow of an emergency evacuation scene. I am deaf of all but the urgency seeping into her vaginal vault. This is a rush it seems to say, we must rush, we are rushing, rushing, rushing – and then with one final gush I find I have been flushed away from that hot red cusp of death, and into the cold air of life.
Hands strung above my head, body suspended a good foot and a half off the ground, I fixed my tormenter with the fiercest glare I could manage.
She laughed, the sinister sound nearly making me shiver. Taking a step forward, she ran her leather-covered fingers along my cheek in the mockery of of a caress before gripping my chin hard enough to bruise. “Spirits, I’ll enjoy breaking that spirit of yours,”
high strung and strung out
want to rip my tongue out
i speak these words
these words without meaning\
i never really understand
exactly what im feeling
or if im feeling anything at all
god i feel like im about to fall
catch catch catch me if you can
oh look another american
boy, i sure am glad i was born
into a land where freedom
is the least free thing you can find
oh im losing my mind
High strung
So young
Head uplifted
From all things restrained I have drifted
Wild and free
It’s all meant to be
There are no mistakes
No need for breaks
Flying at the speed of light
I’ll live life reckless, that’s right
High strung is something I used to be. Pearls strung around my neck is something I’ve never known. But never wanted to know, really. I prefer white gold. And these days I’m not high strung or even strung out. Just calm and content, I don’t need the pearls or the gold.
strung up between fear and my dreams
in limbo – the space between
Pillowcases, kite strings, rain drops, sun beams, stars, maybe a moon, maybe a cloud or two and a few more Mary Poppins things.
Many criticize me because I have never been high; I have always been a “goody-goody.” Although, drugs have never been my choice of addiction, my experience may be more similar than most would assume. You lose a clear frame of mind, you go through withdrawals, and quite possibly put yourself in harms way; this was my story. However, when its you going through this, it feels completely different when it’s someone else addicted to you. Guilt haunts your every step as you reminisce everyday spent together and what could have been done differently to avoid the situation; but, in reality, you can’t avoid it. Certain personality traits does not allow for this to be avoided and then you’re left doing to them exactly what he or she did to you. Break their heart.
I take up my cross and bear all…
My powers are nothing to what stands against me.
I’m not strung up on weakness,
I stand before it, stucco and frail, waiting to kill what stands before me.
I strung the mandolin string with a baseball bat. Ignoring fatal consequences that were ahead.
Strung , well it doesn’t just have one meaning , I mean there can be a world of a difference between just two . He strung the gentle chords of his guitar to produce the sweetest melodies heard by man. He strung on to the voice of his lover , like nothing else had mattered .
She was so far gone, so high up in these false clouds.
Every day, waiting for something. Waiting for a sign, waiting for him.
So far gone,
she couldn’t see how far she was about to fall.
Happy to be in the place, the time, living every heartbeat. One day it will stop. But for now, I am strung in the moment.
You’re strung with the thinnest of threads, and yet you hold on with all your grip. The fraying cotton like butter in your hands, no traction for grip. Why do you keep trying, is it so scary to let go?
Strung up on a pole, dancing in the snow, jumping round and laughing…
Strung up in a hole, jumping on the snow, dancing round and laughing…
Sometimes rhymes are the most disgusting things on the planet. Sometimes I don’t know where the songwriters come up with these things. The song referred to a young man in wartime, and it was not pretty. Not pretty at all.
Strung out on fog. The fog collects in the throat and the lungs. It clogs the nose, floats up into the brain. The fog is blinding. The affected person eventually collapses and cannot get up off of the floor. The affected person will moan and stretch out his or her hands out towards the sky and will weep and claim that they have no knowledge of their identity.
“Get out of here, crackie!” Harold cringed, stunned out of his frantic scramble to grasp the quarter under the vending machine. The fall from Wall Street to looking for spare change on the floor to supply his insatiable addiction was over. He’d hit rock bottom.
She raised the fiddle, strung just this morning, and bowed through a few tunes to warm up. The pub had gone oddly silent, without even a whisper, a snog or a clink of glasses to interrupt the playing.
“Do tell us you’re staying a while?” said one of the men nearby.
“If you don’t mind,” she replied.
Three pints of Galway Pradesh Stout appeared before her, so fast she couldn’t tell who from.
“Mind?” The man shook his head. “We’d be honored.”
She played more.
The fox’s leg was strung tightly to the fence. It desperately gnawed at its paw, sweating, panting, unable to bite free. It wriggled, squirmed and writhed, to no avail.
She strung the line between the two poles. This time it would be different. This time, no matter who protested, she was determined to hang up her laundry. What kind of law was this anyway, that prohibited the hanging of your laundry. It was so much better than using your dryer.
there is no view worth seeing
with the ground stitched
to my feet.
cut the threads and let me
strain my eyes
crane my neck
stand tall until my toes bleed.
until my face turns sunset-purple
until the hurricane in the distance
turns into a metaphor for the air
i’m missing; i don’t care,
the world is beautiful from up here.
bind my wrists in a mockery of wings.
baby, i’ll hang from your noose
any day of the week.
Strung out waiting for the social to pay my money in. Only 3 days late. Hungry. Miserable.
Strung out. Strung up. Strung along.
High strung.
Life is filled with a certain tense of string.
String. Strang. Strung.
Sturm and Drang!
one way to make those idea bulbs glowing
Life as we know it is not strung along haphazardly.
Silence brings me
to my knees and
rips out my vocal
undertones that
never breath words
Godly or ungodly.
I was so strung out on coke that I lost all perception of time and internal thoughts. Sure, I was coherent, but my emotions were built into nothing more than an inebriated game of Jenga. I wish I didn’t give up so easily, but when I go on that ride with the first blow, giving up becomes effortless.
I’m so high strung
suffocating with a collapsed lung
and my heart is being hung
by the thoughts of illusion
We had been inseparable since we met. All 10 of us. How often can anyone say they found their soul mate? Let alone ten? With time, our lives took us in different directions but, we always made sure to reunite at least once a year.
Wind whistled through the grass on the plains and the branches of the trees. That was the only sound. Things got quiet for a while after a hanging.
I love to play the guitar and no matter how many times I strung the string, I just cannot get the right cord. It will take more pratice I suppose.
She strung the beads on the coated wire. Each one sliding beneath her fingertips up the delicate sheath, taking their place in her design. One that sparkles, one that shines, a bit of shimmer. a tiny dangle, all working together to create a symmetry. Once complete this unique circle will offer adornment, beauty, and protection.
The oxen cart was strung from the tree, hanging, swinging slightly with a creaking noise. How did it get there? Ah, my boy, that is a very good question. You see, noone knows how it got there. One day it wasn’t there and the next it mysteriously appeared and it is one of those things in heaven and earth that noone can explain.
The cart is small, wooden, tan brown, rustic, old. Perhaps it belonged to a circus at some point in time, long long ago. Royal blue paint peeling from the sides in sunworn strips. Ancient red metallic wheels bent, twisted, rusted the colour of maple leaves in late fall.
You took me and said
I could not be
lightly strung
so you grabbed me
and wrapped me
as tight
as you fucking could
around your finger
and I think if I got away
I’d come back and asked
to be yours
again.
-a.d.r.
There were thousands of cards strung around the room. As she looked closely, they were all photos from her childhood. Thousands of them. Memories dangling in the air that would make her birthday party interesting, as well as fun.
Out on a line, the colorfully dressed performer seemed to hover high in the air. He was talented to precariously balance on that crusted rope. The audience was caught in suspense.
I sat trapped within my mothers womb, my veins like roots, strung tightly to the flesh of our placenta. I could feel the walls of her body enclosing around me, wringing at my sides and bathing me in bloody tides. There was nothing but the red of this blood and the black of this maternal cage – but as she pushed me closer to the bright, white light I saw these colours flicker and flash like the erratic glow of an emergency evacuation scene. I am deaf of all but the urgency seeping into her vaginal vault. This is a rush it seems to say, we must rush, we are rushing, rushing, rushing – and then with one final gush I find I have been flushed away from that hot red cusp of death, and into the cold air of life.
Strung up in the Hollow tree.
One rope, one for you or me.
What is one to expect, when
you keep company with the king of thieves.
Hands strung above my head, body suspended a good foot and a half off the ground, I fixed my tormenter with the fiercest glare I could manage.
She laughed, the sinister sound nearly making me shiver. Taking a step forward, she ran her leather-covered fingers along my cheek in the mockery of of a caress before gripping my chin hard enough to bruise. “Spirits, I’ll enjoy breaking that spirit of yours,”
high strung and strung out
want to rip my tongue out
i speak these words
these words without meaning\
i never really understand
exactly what im feeling
or if im feeling anything at all
god i feel like im about to fall
catch catch catch me if you can
oh look another american
boy, i sure am glad i was born
into a land where freedom
is the least free thing you can find
oh im losing my mind