The baubles were strung across the tree, along with flashing lights and various other interesting things. A Santa here, a snow flake there, all reflecting the rainbow motif of the house.
She laid on the floor, a crooked smirk falling off of her face. She new she’d overdone it this time, but she honestly didn’t care. One more hit, one more, just one more sweet relief. It was always like that with her. She was never satisfied. She was never done. She was never complete. More, more, more. She was a greedy woman.
Nerves strung tight
Patience stretched thin
Hope fading
Love endures
Life is not always easy
Live it as best you can
Do not let the difficulties define you
You are more than you are so long as you believe
its so easy to be sad sometimes
to become so strung up on life that all you want to do is curl up and cry
everybody knows what it feels like to wake up and feel worried and more broken then the night before
to focus on something negative and pick at that string nervously until it unravels into something that’s completely unrecognizable
to leave the sheets off the bed
to find comfort in a face down carpet make out session
to look over your shoulder to make sure that you’re completely alone before you press play on that Regina spektor song, and no Regina it’s not better, yet
but for a moment let me indulge myself in this encompassing gray sweat suit– it’s a metaphor and one that I will rock like the Kardshian’s told me to..not that I can keep up…
people tell me that self pity is destructive and like any medication taken in excess… I couldn’t agree more, but today give me a mourning period even when I have nothing to mourn
allow me briefly to experience the low so that whenever I claw my way back to high, people will think that I am amazing
look away if it bothers you, it won’t last long and by the time you turn back around I will have rebirthed like the phoenix giving harry the wings to fly
that doesn’t change the fact that it is so easy to be sad sometimes.
His eyes were like the lights, the lights strung up on the banisters. They glowed, not literally, but with a sense of child-like wonder that I had not seen in anyone else.
The birdhouse was strung to the tall oak with a flimsy thread of floss, used floss, floss that had ensnared itself in the teeth of the girl who missed sparrows. They had been gone for eight months, scared to be seen across the street from the newly erected Peddlesfield Cat Haven.
strung together like liquid beads of lead, running through her tawny fingers, which tingle as she holds them–blue sapphire beads, these proto-mercury beads, which smell like vinegar and cinnamon, and tingle and sting to the touch. But when she brings them up to her mouth, they don’t taste bitter at all.
A plaid shirt sporting a hole in the bottom corner, missing the top button;
Your jeans, wrinkled, faded;
One sock – big enough for both of my feet.
Your possessions clipped to my clothesline:
Memories strung in my backyard, forever taunting me of the realization that you are inevitably gone.
“Hey, what’s the matter, goldilocks?” Grantaire drawled. “You seem a little bit more high strung than usual. Which is something of a feat, if I’m being perfectly honest.”
“I’m fine,” Enjolras said, making sure to unclench his teeth beforehand.
“Wanna smoke?” the younger man offered, holding a pack of cigarettes out to the stoic blond. Enjolras only gave him an acidic look in answer. Grantaire chuckled.
strung up from the rafters, or strung out on the bed. does it really matter? see the junkie in the corner. she’s been dying for a fix, she’s been dying from her fix. she’s lost in that corner, her sanity erased. if only she could see what her life could have been.
we picked ohelo berries in the mountains all day. the air must have gotten to us, the wide open space. we went for coffee afterwards. the barista commented on our energy. i said we were high strung from a day in the wild. she said were were high, alright, on something.
All of the dirty washing, hung out to show the world. Pinks, blues, browns, greys, purples and yucky off whites all strung up in a row. But she didn’t care. The world needed to know. The world needed to know that no matter how hard one tries to wash and scrub and clean, there will always be a dirty piece in the mix.
By the time George had strung all the beads together, the bell had rung and it was time for lunch. However, even as the other students scrambled for their neon backpacks and pulled out shiny plastic lunchboxes filled with chocolate chip cookies, bags of pretzels, and peanut butter sandwiches with white bread, George didn’t leave his desk. He tied the necklace up in a neat know, walked up to his teacher’s desk, and handed her the jewelry.
Memories strung along a wire. Hold together meaning. Cut them off. Everything falls. Now useless – a path with nothing on it. Time to create new memories.
Strung? Well this could mean a lot of things. Some people are high strung. You could use it in the form of strung such as you strung lights up. (I have no clue if that even made sense.) Strung.
Her body was now lifeless. The regiments of her hung from the rope. That rope took on the role of letting her free in that old abandon building. Her lifeless arms hung and still legs dangled. She strung herself from the ceiling. In that building was something she adored when she was young, it was her escape from the world. The skeleton made up the majority of the structure as of then, the fat of it peeled away. No longer with paint or any sign that it one inhabited people, only some walls remained.
I feel strung out on you. I need more and crave more then anything else. when you are not around I get jittery. But when I see your truck coming down the drive and you open your arms I get my fix that I needed.
She was so strung out, every small movement seemed to take effort. Too much effort. Looking at her, I was amazed she hadn’t broken yet. But it didn’t look like it would take long. She was going to break soon. Her eyes were red, her face was pale, and every word brought tears to her eyes.
He strung me along for almost four years. Well no more. I have become older, and wiser. And know now that there is more to life then waiting on something that will never happen.
He held his heart back. Swung it on a string like it was a piece of plastic that hummed the faster you span it. He made you think he didn’t care, but he did. His heart ripped a little with ever turn.
She gulped, feeling the hard lump of unshed tears shift in her throat. The wall was cold, hard as she slid down it, bumping onto the mud softly. How did it happen again? Was she fated to be strung along like a puppet at every turn? Was her life nothing more than a show, for others’ pleasure?
The story goes like this: a man finds a murdered woman by a rushing stream. He makes her body into a fiddle of bone, strung with her golden hair. In some versions the fiddle names her murderer when played. In others the fiddle breaks and the woman reappears, alive and unharmed.
He was strung out, too high to realize what he was saying or doing, but when it all came crashing at him in the form of a large fist, he knew he was in deep trouble.
That’s how she felt it was, or I was. Whether it was high or that damned guitar. Or there were the things we did from time to time with fish out on the lake. Ah, the lake remember that? Weekends there before the bottom fell out. LEISURE. We were so high-falutin then.
the beads, next to each other, rainbow. Color. The mornings we sat in a flood of sun and pieced them together, pieced ourselves together, backyard by backyard, playground by playground. Classroom after classroom, the new Gothic ones I enter now. I heard they lead us through an arch. There’s no looking back.
She strung the necklaces short atop long, the bracelets wide above narrow, and carefully covered each knuckle with a ring before stepping back and staring at the mirror. Her mask was half way done.
I am strung out, she thinks staring at the water dripping down the tile walls of the steaming foggy bathroom shower. She has no idea where she is or where she had planned on going when she left her boyfriends apartment last night. She will run until she is found.
He hadn’t played in a while. As he looked over his old guitar lying by the counter, he realized he had missed playing after all. When he picks it up, a wave of nostalgia came over him that almost brought him to tears. Inside the guitar, an etched note said: “never forget”.
I strung the balloons on the laundry line as the time for the party neared. Cyrus scrambled under my legs as Mama set the lemonade and the cups on the picnic table fle
Shells were strung between the small bare trees lining the riverbank. The island was littered
with clam and oyster shells,…. feasts by the settlers of long ago.
High-strung and hot tempered. That was the core of his personality. One of them, at least. He was a god and as such his temperament was decided by his followers. People saw the danger of fire, the way it greedily ate all in its path and snapped at anything in its path and said he must act so. Others saw the way fire warmed chilled hands and crackled merrily at the hearth and decreed him even tempered and mellow.
The baubles were strung across the tree, along with flashing lights and various other interesting things. A Santa here, a snow flake there, all reflecting the rainbow motif of the house.
strung up from the trees
swinging like a ghost or an echo
a hollow memory
swollen slice of time dangling heavy
as summer fruit.
She laid on the floor, a crooked smirk falling off of her face. She new she’d overdone it this time, but she honestly didn’t care. One more hit, one more, just one more sweet relief. It was always like that with her. She was never satisfied. She was never done. She was never complete. More, more, more. She was a greedy woman.
Nerves strung tight
Patience stretched thin
Hope fading
Love endures
Life is not always easy
Live it as best you can
Do not let the difficulties define you
You are more than you are so long as you believe
its so easy to be sad sometimes
to become so strung up on life that all you want to do is curl up and cry
everybody knows what it feels like to wake up and feel worried and more broken then the night before
to focus on something negative and pick at that string nervously until it unravels into something that’s completely unrecognizable
to leave the sheets off the bed
to find comfort in a face down carpet make out session
to look over your shoulder to make sure that you’re completely alone before you press play on that Regina spektor song, and no Regina it’s not better, yet
but for a moment let me indulge myself in this encompassing gray sweat suit– it’s a metaphor and one that I will rock like the Kardshian’s told me to..not that I can keep up…
people tell me that self pity is destructive and like any medication taken in excess… I couldn’t agree more, but today give me a mourning period even when I have nothing to mourn
allow me briefly to experience the low so that whenever I claw my way back to high, people will think that I am amazing
look away if it bothers you, it won’t last long and by the time you turn back around I will have rebirthed like the phoenix giving harry the wings to fly
that doesn’t change the fact that it is so easy to be sad sometimes.
His eyes were like the lights, the lights strung up on the banisters. They glowed, not literally, but with a sense of child-like wonder that I had not seen in anyone else.
The birdhouse was strung to the tall oak with a flimsy thread of floss, used floss, floss that had ensnared itself in the teeth of the girl who missed sparrows. They had been gone for eight months, scared to be seen across the street from the newly erected Peddlesfield Cat Haven.
strung together like liquid beads of lead, running through her tawny fingers, which tingle as she holds them–blue sapphire beads, these proto-mercury beads, which smell like vinegar and cinnamon, and tingle and sting to the touch. But when she brings them up to her mouth, they don’t taste bitter at all.
A plaid shirt sporting a hole in the bottom corner, missing the top button;
Your jeans, wrinkled, faded;
One sock – big enough for both of my feet.
Your possessions clipped to my clothesline:
Memories strung in my backyard, forever taunting me of the realization that you are inevitably gone.
“Hey, what’s the matter, goldilocks?” Grantaire drawled. “You seem a little bit more high strung than usual. Which is something of a feat, if I’m being perfectly honest.”
“I’m fine,” Enjolras said, making sure to unclench his teeth beforehand.
“Wanna smoke?” the younger man offered, holding a pack of cigarettes out to the stoic blond. Enjolras only gave him an acidic look in answer. Grantaire chuckled.
“All right, all right. I’ll be nice today.”
strung up from the rafters, or strung out on the bed. does it really matter? see the junkie in the corner. she’s been dying for a fix, she’s been dying from her fix. she’s lost in that corner, her sanity erased. if only she could see what her life could have been.
we picked ohelo berries in the mountains all day. the air must have gotten to us, the wide open space. we went for coffee afterwards. the barista commented on our energy. i said we were high strung from a day in the wild. she said were were high, alright, on something.
All of the dirty washing, hung out to show the world. Pinks, blues, browns, greys, purples and yucky off whites all strung up in a row. But she didn’t care. The world needed to know. The world needed to know that no matter how hard one tries to wash and scrub and clean, there will always be a dirty piece in the mix.
“she is a little high strung” said grandpa, as he fetched the ladder to get the coffee pot from a mid-level branch of the oak tree.
By the time George had strung all the beads together, the bell had rung and it was time for lunch. However, even as the other students scrambled for their neon backpacks and pulled out shiny plastic lunchboxes filled with chocolate chip cookies, bags of pretzels, and peanut butter sandwiches with white bread, George didn’t leave his desk. He tied the necklace up in a neat know, walked up to his teacher’s desk, and handed her the jewelry.
Memories strung along a wire. Hold together meaning. Cut them off. Everything falls. Now useless – a path with nothing on it. Time to create new memories.
She was strung.
Her dreams and aspirations were hung.
Strung? Well this could mean a lot of things. Some people are high strung. You could use it in the form of strung such as you strung lights up. (I have no clue if that even made sense.) Strung.
Her body was now lifeless. The regiments of her hung from the rope. That rope took on the role of letting her free in that old abandon building. Her lifeless arms hung and still legs dangled. She strung herself from the ceiling. In that building was something she adored when she was young, it was her escape from the world. The skeleton made up the majority of the structure as of then, the fat of it peeled away. No longer with paint or any sign that it one inhabited people, only some walls remained.
I feel strung out on you. I need more and crave more then anything else. when you are not around I get jittery. But when I see your truck coming down the drive and you open your arms I get my fix that I needed.
She was strung, the life drained from her body and her soul was set free.
I’m so high strung sometimes.
strung.. pearls strung on thread, white and smooth. strung… my flesh and your flesh with needle and thread
She was so strung out, every small movement seemed to take effort. Too much effort. Looking at her, I was amazed she hadn’t broken yet. But it didn’t look like it would take long. She was going to break soon. Her eyes were red, her face was pale, and every word brought tears to her eyes.
He strung me along for almost four years. Well no more. I have become older, and wiser. And know now that there is more to life then waiting on something that will never happen.
He held his heart back. Swung it on a string like it was a piece of plastic that hummed the faster you span it. He made you think he didn’t care, but he did. His heart ripped a little with ever turn.
She gulped, feeling the hard lump of unshed tears shift in her throat. The wall was cold, hard as she slid down it, bumping onto the mud softly. How did it happen again? Was she fated to be strung along like a puppet at every turn? Was her life nothing more than a show, for others’ pleasure?
The story goes like this: a man finds a murdered woman by a rushing stream. He makes her body into a fiddle of bone, strung with her golden hair. In some versions the fiddle names her murderer when played. In others the fiddle breaks and the woman reappears, alive and unharmed.
In the true version, the fiddle screamed.
He was strung out, too high to realize what he was saying or doing, but when it all came crashing at him in the form of a large fist, he knew he was in deep trouble.
the sea strung
strands of pearls
amidst reflected stars
hearts on balloons
lifting up
to the sky
filled
with wishes.
red balls
of hope
clinging for dreams.
That’s how she felt it was, or I was. Whether it was high or that damned guitar. Or there were the things we did from time to time with fish out on the lake. Ah, the lake remember that? Weekends there before the bottom fell out. LEISURE. We were so high-falutin then.
the beads, next to each other, rainbow. Color. The mornings we sat in a flood of sun and pieced them together, pieced ourselves together, backyard by backyard, playground by playground. Classroom after classroom, the new Gothic ones I enter now. I heard they lead us through an arch. There’s no looking back.
She strung the necklaces short atop long, the bracelets wide above narrow, and carefully covered each knuckle with a ring before stepping back and staring at the mirror. Her mask was half way done.
I am strung out, she thinks staring at the water dripping down the tile walls of the steaming foggy bathroom shower. She has no idea where she is or where she had planned on going when she left her boyfriends apartment last night. She will run until she is found.
A string of beads drips around her neck to fall teasingly between her breasts.
He hadn’t played in a while. As he looked over his old guitar lying by the counter, he realized he had missed playing after all. When he picks it up, a wave of nostalgia came over him that almost brought him to tears. Inside the guitar, an etched note said: “never forget”.
I strung the balloons on the laundry line as the time for the party neared. Cyrus scrambled under my legs as Mama set the lemonade and the cups on the picnic table fle
Shells were strung between the small bare trees lining the riverbank. The island was littered
with clam and oyster shells,…. feasts by the settlers of long ago.
High-strung and hot tempered. That was the core of his personality. One of them, at least. He was a god and as such his temperament was decided by his followers. People saw the danger of fire, the way it greedily ate all in its path and snapped at anything in its path and said he must act so. Others saw the way fire warmed chilled hands and crackled merrily at the hearth and decreed him even tempered and mellow.