A story still unwritten. She couldn’t bear it, no one knowing about her. But each time she tried to write her story, she was like an impatient toddler, plunging her hands in paint and swiping it across posterboard, making a mess everyone thought was cute but no one wanted to clean up.
It is an unwritten part of our law that the deep is left alone; the deep is always free, always black. We do not touch it. The birds fly into it, and out again, and are somehow changed. We know this by their eyes, which are black pools, spinning forever. What would happen to us if we crossed into it, if we waded into the deep, is surely worse.
So much of what I think stays locked within. Adventures, horrors, comedies. Epic stories featuring dynamic and awkward characters play out in my dreams. When I sit at my computer, they cower behind a wall of insecurity.
Liberty or life? I don’t think so, give me that unwritten right to just run away and think about it all tomorrow. I know that what isn’t finished today will be there in buckets to finish tomorrow. I do not procrastinate, I am a planner and a finisher completer, finishing things I start, including very long sentences, eventually. Why is it that recently things are being done at full speed and I am just about keeping up with everything?
writers renew their inventory after death defined
those are unwritten story writers keep in mind
the momento mori of anyone they leave behind
to where heaven’s morning glory greets mankind
“A question, councilor, if I may?”
Tully grunted his consent, not that I needed it. Still, it was good he knew his place. And that it was below me.
“Since the laws of this nation have yet to be written what exactly is it that you’re interpreting?” I asked.
He huffed. “Well, certainly SOME standards are obvious.”
“Oh? And what would those be? The ones we fought for? The ones we fought against?” I paused, my smile sickeningly sweet. “Or, should I say, the one’s I fought for.”
His face flushed with embarrassment. “Now, see here-“
So many unwritten words, so many thoughts and ideas that aren’t logged or acknowledged. The best, or worst, ideas in history that people will never know about, most of the time because of discouragement. Beautiful stories go unseen because one single person thinks it would be a silly idea, ceasing the story from ever going beyond just a few lines.
Unwritten rules are often the hardest to stick to – you just have to know what’s right and wrong, what’s acceptable behavior and what is verboten. You need to be mentored in, taught the ways of the society you are seeking admittance to, without trespassing or stepping on any toes.
I breathe and work each day with words in my head left unspoken. I read and write each day and fall asleep. I’ll never get to wake up after midnight and write what should be written. Before it ends.
why can’t I finish that last sentence. It always irks me so. The timer is like an evil woman teasing, taunting, dressing seductively, knowing that I can never touch what my flesh desires.
The event of that evening would not be found in any of the history books that would be written through the years. The event of that evening would die with the generation that lived it and experienced it, their lips sealed tight, their faces grim, and their wills determined to bring the secret with them to their graves. The event of that evening would fade away with time, just as it should, such an awful event, such an awful evening. It was for the best if it was just forgotten. The event of that evening.
Looking back it all felt like there were so many things left unwritten. The passage of time will without any doubt write every single one of them. It is all just a matter of when and how. Characters waiting for a line. That’s what we are.
There are times where we regret the things we did not pen down, the words we did not say to those whom we love dearly…And more often than not, such regret holds us down, imprisons us in a cage of the past, disabling our potentials and crippling our future.
But yet, if we rise above all that, if we consider ourselves to be of greater strength…
Perhaps such is unwritten as well.
Only that it is of a great power that pushes us towards the future, not the past.
If I chose not to write this I wouldn’t have written anything all day, but instead I am here, in bed, with my tea wondering what to day about the words I am writing that could have been unwritten, had I chosen not to write them. There’s a funny voice inside my head that tells me that doesn’t really make sense. But I don’t really care. It’s down now.
darkness cuts clear upon the night
i choked to speak but words are always trite
the ticking taunt of the ways that passed you by
the somnolent skies spit sonorous sighs
unwritten as they bury truth in lies
and the last word never is good bye.
The two glowered at each other. Neither were happy with the arrangement, but through some strange, unwritten clause in the law, they were stuck this way. ‘Till death do them part, anyway.
There is so much of my life that is unwritten. So much I’ve left unrecorded. No matter how much I write or how much I try to record, there simply isn’t enough time to document all my memories or all of my emotions. And no way for it to stick around once I’m gone. And that’s a fact that I find unsettling.
Song
My heart is unwritten by you
you have destroyed, picked (it) apart
Now I can rewrite it, change it, make it mine
What do you say?
You cannot control me
Unwritten, positive and negative
Sometimes she just felt like she couldn’t write anything down. Her feelings stayed inside, in her head, heavy on her heart because she couldn’t bear to see them in print. They would hurt too much. She liked them better in her head where she could ignore them. But if she wrote them down, then she would be admitting that they were real, and that scared her.
So much goes unsaid. The words I’ve had in my mind but never taken the time to write. I could fill a book, only I haven’t. It will always remain unwritten.
I had nothing of value for this year. Nothing I could tell my children. Nothing that would develop a fanbase. I only had tragedy and drunken tragedy to fill the gaps between 24 and 25. It was a year when my enemies won. And I deserved it.
Time cannot be unwritten. The past is the past. It can’t be erased from history. In some cases it can be forgotten. But not unwritten. To write in any form whether it be action or story or history writing is a form of art. And in the day and age art will always be preserved. Photos, saved in hard drives, will save what’s been written. So we as a part of history will not be unwritten. If I had a time travel device, then maybe time could be re-written. Stories can be worked on, altered. Paintings can be painted over. But the original will always be hidden underneath or in the creator’s memory. Art cannot be undone. And the actions you make in life cannot be undone. History cannot be unwritten. To unwrite is to destroy.
this is an unwritten part of my life. my whole future is. what should i put on those pages? what story should i write? what direction should i go? where should i go, who will i meet? what will i do?
The words appeared on the page, almost unbidden- These were words that had been stuck inside (hearts, throats, minds – words that longed to be released, to be able to be heard, or seen, or felt (because words /can/ be felt)… but for the most part remained unwritted. Unseen. Unheard. Not felt.).
There is something within me, pressing against my heart and restricting its beats. It sings in a language that I cannot translate, and I am left lost, alone in its call.
The pages were crumbling around me. I worked so hard to be what I dreamt of; I’d spent more time constructing the dream than actually living it.
“You’re pathetic!” someone shouted at me.
They’re right. I haven’t accomplished anything I set out to do. I work at a god damn pet groomer, for christ’s sake, and I’m still waiting for some giant beam from the sky to rain meaning down upon me.
i used to believe in fairy tales, and all of the dreams that were floating around in my head. i used to believe i’d fall in love and be happy and sing sweetly away and off into the daylight. but i’m sitting alone in the dark still wondering if anyone will ever smile at me exactly the way i want him to–with the curtains closed to the rest of the world, and the sound all drowned out. there are things i would love to tell you, but somehow you just always throw me off guard and i don’t seem to be able to articulate anything clearly. how must you see me, i wonder?
This song has so many unwritten memories lingering between the lyrics. Unity to a room of exhausted volunteers as we crow the words at the top of our lungs. Heads nodding along with the blaring radio. Dancing with a sweet mystery in a dark room, neon lights flashing and smoke trailing through the midst of bodies. I’m breaking in and shaping up, then checking out on the prison bus. Welcome to the new age.
A story still unwritten. She couldn’t bear it, no one knowing about her. But each time she tried to write her story, she was like an impatient toddler, plunging her hands in paint and swiping it across posterboard, making a mess everyone thought was cute but no one wanted to clean up.
if you want to see yourself in the bible
all you have to do
is wait two thousand years.
It is an unwritten part of our law that the deep is left alone; the deep is always free, always black. We do not touch it. The birds fly into it, and out again, and are somehow changed. We know this by their eyes, which are black pools, spinning forever. What would happen to us if we crossed into it, if we waded into the deep, is surely worse.
So much of what I think stays locked within. Adventures, horrors, comedies. Epic stories featuring dynamic and awkward characters play out in my dreams. When I sit at my computer, they cower behind a wall of insecurity.
Liberty or life? I don’t think so, give me that unwritten right to just run away and think about it all tomorrow. I know that what isn’t finished today will be there in buckets to finish tomorrow. I do not procrastinate, I am a planner and a finisher completer, finishing things I start, including very long sentences, eventually. Why is it that recently things are being done at full speed and I am just about keeping up with everything?
If you backspace over everything you wrote, is what you wrote unwritten?
writers renew their inventory after death defined
those are unwritten story writers keep in mind
the momento mori of anyone they leave behind
to where heaven’s morning glory greets mankind
“A question, councilor, if I may?”
Tully grunted his consent, not that I needed it. Still, it was good he knew his place. And that it was below me.
“Since the laws of this nation have yet to be written what exactly is it that you’re interpreting?” I asked.
He huffed. “Well, certainly SOME standards are obvious.”
“Oh? And what would those be? The ones we fought for? The ones we fought against?” I paused, my smile sickeningly sweet. “Or, should I say, the one’s I fought for.”
His face flushed with embarrassment. “Now, see here-“
So many unwritten words, so many thoughts and ideas that aren’t logged or acknowledged. The best, or worst, ideas in history that people will never know about, most of the time because of discouragement. Beautiful stories go unseen because one single person thinks it would be a silly idea, ceasing the story from ever going beyond just a few lines.
We will never know of the unwritten stories of our forefathers and their exploits, those who have gone on before us and have left a unrecorded legacy.
Unwritten rules are often the hardest to stick to – you just have to know what’s right and wrong, what’s acceptable behavior and what is verboten. You need to be mentored in, taught the ways of the society you are seeking admittance to, without trespassing or stepping on any toes.
I breathe and work each day with words in my head left unspoken. I read and write each day and fall asleep. I’ll never get to wake up after midnight and write what should be written. Before it ends.
why can’t I finish that last sentence. It always irks me so. The timer is like an evil woman teasing, taunting, dressing seductively, knowing that I can never touch what my flesh desires.
The event of that evening would not be found in any of the history books that would be written through the years. The event of that evening would die with the generation that lived it and experienced it, their lips sealed tight, their faces grim, and their wills determined to bring the secret with them to their graves. The event of that evening would fade away with time, just as it should, such an awful event, such an awful evening. It was for the best if it was just forgotten. The event of that evening.
Looking back it all felt like there were so many things left unwritten. The passage of time will without any doubt write every single one of them. It is all just a matter of when and how. Characters waiting for a line. That’s what we are.
Your life is unwritten, you’re the one who choses the ink, the pages, and the story. Write your life, and no story will go untold.
Words unwritten. Things left unsaid.
There are times where we regret the things we did not pen down, the words we did not say to those whom we love dearly…And more often than not, such regret holds us down, imprisons us in a cage of the past, disabling our potentials and crippling our future.
But yet, if we rise above all that, if we consider ourselves to be of greater strength…
Perhaps such is unwritten as well.
Only that it is of a great power that pushes us towards the future, not the past.
If I chose not to write this I wouldn’t have written anything all day, but instead I am here, in bed, with my tea wondering what to day about the words I am writing that could have been unwritten, had I chosen not to write them. There’s a funny voice inside my head that tells me that doesn’t really make sense. But I don’t really care. It’s down now.
darkness cuts clear upon the night
i choked to speak but words are always trite
the ticking taunt of the ways that passed you by
the somnolent skies spit sonorous sighs
unwritten as they bury truth in lies
and the last word never is good bye.
The world is an unwritten, ever adapting story. The twists of its story change as the great minds and technology develop and adapt.
The two glowered at each other. Neither were happy with the arrangement, but through some strange, unwritten clause in the law, they were stuck this way. ‘Till death do them part, anyway.
Like a blank page? Or like a wall with lot’s on it but nothing to say?
Like a mind with no thought?
Or just an expression. Unwritten on your face, because it says it all.
There is so much of my life that is unwritten. So much I’ve left unrecorded. No matter how much I write or how much I try to record, there simply isn’t enough time to document all my memories or all of my emotions. And no way for it to stick around once I’m gone. And that’s a fact that I find unsettling.
My story is unwritten.
I write it as I go and as I please. I have no scrpit. No set direction on where I’m going. I just am.
And my story will stay unwritten until I decide to write it. And that will not be until I am no more.
We walk down lines, predefined before our time. Stepping to the sound of a hope deep down, that somehow, even now, we’ll find a path unwritten.
Song
My heart is unwritten by you
you have destroyed, picked (it) apart
Now I can rewrite it, change it, make it mine
What do you say?
You cannot control me
Unwritten, positive and negative
It’s funny how much between us was actually unwritten and unsaid.
What’s even funnier is that people always assumed that it wasn’t (unwritten and unsaid, that is).
But the funniest thing is that I actually believed there was something worth writing and talking about.
Sometimes she just felt like she couldn’t write anything down. Her feelings stayed inside, in her head, heavy on her heart because she couldn’t bear to see them in print. They would hurt too much. She liked them better in her head where she could ignore them. But if she wrote them down, then she would be admitting that they were real, and that scared her.
So much goes unsaid. The words I’ve had in my mind but never taken the time to write. I could fill a book, only I haven’t. It will always remain unwritten.
I had nothing of value for this year. Nothing I could tell my children. Nothing that would develop a fanbase. I only had tragedy and drunken tragedy to fill the gaps between 24 and 25. It was a year when my enemies won. And I deserved it.
Time cannot be unwritten. The past is the past. It can’t be erased from history. In some cases it can be forgotten. But not unwritten. To write in any form whether it be action or story or history writing is a form of art. And in the day and age art will always be preserved. Photos, saved in hard drives, will save what’s been written. So we as a part of history will not be unwritten. If I had a time travel device, then maybe time could be re-written. Stories can be worked on, altered. Paintings can be painted over. But the original will always be hidden underneath or in the creator’s memory. Art cannot be undone. And the actions you make in life cannot be undone. History cannot be unwritten. To unwrite is to destroy.
this is an unwritten part of my life. my whole future is. what should i put on those pages? what story should i write? what direction should i go? where should i go, who will i meet? what will i do?
Unwritten, by Natasha Bedingfield :D
Also, my novel is currently unwritten.
The words appeared on the page, almost unbidden- These were words that had been stuck inside (hearts, throats, minds – words that longed to be released, to be able to be heard, or seen, or felt (because words /can/ be felt)… but for the most part remained unwritted. Unseen. Unheard. Not felt.).
There is something within me, pressing against my heart and restricting its beats. It sings in a language that I cannot translate, and I am left lost, alone in its call.
The pages were crumbling around me. I worked so hard to be what I dreamt of; I’d spent more time constructing the dream than actually living it.
“You’re pathetic!” someone shouted at me.
They’re right. I haven’t accomplished anything I set out to do. I work at a god damn pet groomer, for christ’s sake, and I’m still waiting for some giant beam from the sky to rain meaning down upon me.
The zombie stared at her smart phone wondering what to text.
It is an unwritten law not to write our rules down.
i used to believe in fairy tales, and all of the dreams that were floating around in my head. i used to believe i’d fall in love and be happy and sing sweetly away and off into the daylight. but i’m sitting alone in the dark still wondering if anyone will ever smile at me exactly the way i want him to–with the curtains closed to the rest of the world, and the sound all drowned out. there are things i would love to tell you, but somehow you just always throw me off guard and i don’t seem to be able to articulate anything clearly. how must you see me, i wonder?
This song has so many unwritten memories lingering between the lyrics. Unity to a room of exhausted volunteers as we crow the words at the top of our lungs. Heads nodding along with the blaring radio. Dancing with a sweet mystery in a dark room, neon lights flashing and smoke trailing through the midst of bodies. I’m breaking in and shaping up, then checking out on the prison bus. Welcome to the new age.