We are all servants of this society, we are bound by its’ rules and expectations, without any real freedom. I wish I could be free, free like the ocean, open. Free like the wind, independent. I wish I could be free and not bound to the problems of my country.
I feel bad for people who are servants. Especially at restaurants. I see how they get treated like cr*p. I don’t think its fair the way they get treated. Being a servant doesn’t mean people have to treat them as if saying”you work for me you aren’t allowed to have feelings”.
this is such an interesting word to write about. I think mentally I am the servant of my trauma. I walk around feeling like a servant all the time. it also brings up memories of the man I dated for 6 years, a black man and what it had to do with my understanding of slavery. also, the caste system, which is a sensitive thing because of me being a mixed caste child.
I looked up from the ground, into those unforgiving eyes. They mocked me, waiting for me to bow, to submit. But I am no servant, and I kneel to no man.
servant was the name of my most recent dog. He was a very happy funny dog, servant got his name because when he was just al little puppy he would try to bring you food.
She was a small town girl. She got taken from her family at a young age. She was forced to be a servant for rich families who beat her everyday. She always wondered where her parents were, if they were okay, and if they missed her. Did they ever even look for her? Where even was she? All she knows is she wants to go home.
She was a small town girl. She got taken from her family at a young age. She was forced to be a servant for rich families who beat her everyday. She always wondered where her parents were, if they were okay, and if they missed her. Did they ever even look for her? Where even was she? All she knows is she wants to go home.
servants are commonly looked down upon because theyre main job is to basically do anything anyone wants. some fail to recognize that they are humans as well
The servant had a premonition,
walking up to the master,
handing him a plate of disaster,
on a canvas platter.
The herringbone jacket
elbowed the platter,
and now the servant
wonders,
if,
he, even
matters.
He’s not a run of the mill type of celtic,
he used to help people,
vent
and
live.
Now he’s out to give.
When the trees finally filtered away, and the stars began their dark decent into the horizon, the chains of his manacles stopped their loud screaming as he stopped and looked up. The lights of the world reminded him he was worth nothing more than the fate that brought him to that moment.
He was a servant. There’s nothing else to it. He didn’t want to be anything else than a servant, so he meekly accepted his job of cleaning the blood off of the carpets and making sure the marbles were spotless.
On his knees he found freedom. No longer a servant to society’s expectations or the rat race, he surrendered the burden of being perfect and making good decisions to his Mistress.
she spoke softly.
“i live to serve, miss.”
the only thing she’s ever known is you. regal and holy in a light she’s learned to see. raised to revere you in resplendence.
I was a servant in their family. But they have never appreciated anyone. Not even each other. As a servant, I had to suffer various attacks on my person, mental and as well as physical attacks. However, they made me so much stronger.
Sometimes I feel as if I’m a servant to a couple of friends of mine. Or a personal assistant. They don’t mistreat me, but sometimes I feel as if I’m just around to do tasks and make them happy.
Last week, frostbite gnawing at my fingers as I tried to turn the key in the lock, I felt like your servant. The little note you sent me afterwards warmed me, even though you were professoring me a little bit. I wonder if you can help it. I wonder if you like it.
I offer my servant a drink. She takes it gladly, sips slowly, savors the tartness of the nectar as it works it way down her throat and into the abyss that is her stomach. She sighs as it settles. Then, I offer her my seat. She takes that gladly, too.
She is beautiful in the sunlight from the window. She lies prone on the divan, feet bare, shoulders also uncovered.
damn, ok this is difficult. 60 seconds for one word. I am a servant to a lot of things. I am a servant of my own mind it seems sometimes. As much meditation as I try to do and whatnot I still feel my lakc of thoughts controlling me
We are all servants of this society, we are bound by its’ rules and expectations, without any real freedom. I wish I could be free, free like the ocean, open. Free like the wind, independent. I wish I could be free and not bound to the problems of my country.
I feel bad for people who are servants. Especially at restaurants. I see how they get treated like cr*p. I don’t think its fair the way they get treated. Being a servant doesn’t mean people have to treat them as if saying”you work for me you aren’t allowed to have feelings”.
this is such an interesting word to write about. I think mentally I am the servant of my trauma. I walk around feeling like a servant all the time. it also brings up memories of the man I dated for 6 years, a black man and what it had to do with my understanding of slavery. also, the caste system, which is a sensitive thing because of me being a mixed caste child.
I looked up from the ground, into those unforgiving eyes. They mocked me, waiting for me to bow, to submit. But I am no servant, and I kneel to no man.
leader, being there for others. Diving in with them, supportive.
No job is less than mine.
Humble leader.
servant was the name of my most recent dog. He was a very happy funny dog, servant got his name because when he was just al little puppy he would try to bring you food.
She was a small town girl. She got taken from her family at a young age. She was forced to be a servant for rich families who beat her everyday. She always wondered where her parents were, if they were okay, and if they missed her. Did they ever even look for her? Where even was she? All she knows is she wants to go home.
She was a small town girl. She got taken from her family at a young age. She was forced to be a servant for rich families who beat her everyday. She always wondered where her parents were, if they were okay, and if they missed her. Did they ever even look for her? Where even was she? All she knows is she wants to go home.
servants are commonly looked down upon because theyre main job is to basically do anything anyone wants. some fail to recognize that they are humans as well
I am a servant to the lord. ii love serving ppl
A servant is someone who wait on you hand and foot. I know I would love to have one to clean my room and stuff like that.
The servant had a premonition,
walking up to the master,
handing him a plate of disaster,
on a canvas platter.
The herringbone jacket
elbowed the platter,
and now the servant
wonders,
if,
he, even
matters.
He’s not a run of the mill type of celtic,
he used to help people,
vent
and
live.
Now he’s out to give.
When the trees finally filtered away, and the stars began their dark decent into the horizon, the chains of his manacles stopped their loud screaming as he stopped and looked up. The lights of the world reminded him he was worth nothing more than the fate that brought him to that moment.
He was a servant. There’s nothing else to it. He didn’t want to be anything else than a servant, so he meekly accepted his job of cleaning the blood off of the carpets and making sure the marbles were spotless.
On his knees he found freedom. No longer a servant to society’s expectations or the rat race, he surrendered the burden of being perfect and making good decisions to his Mistress.
she spoke softly.
“i live to serve, miss.”
the only thing she’s ever known is you. regal and holy in a light she’s learned to see. raised to revere you in resplendence.
Eyes down, or up. It does not mean, bow your head. It means, give.
I was a servant in their family. But they have never appreciated anyone. Not even each other. As a servant, I had to suffer various attacks on my person, mental and as well as physical attacks. However, they made me so much stronger.
Sometimes I feel as if I’m a servant to a couple of friends of mine. Or a personal assistant. They don’t mistreat me, but sometimes I feel as if I’m just around to do tasks and make them happy.
Last week, frostbite gnawing at my fingers as I tried to turn the key in the lock, I felt like your servant. The little note you sent me afterwards warmed me, even though you were professoring me a little bit. I wonder if you can help it. I wonder if you like it.
I offer my servant a drink. She takes it gladly, sips slowly, savors the tartness of the nectar as it works it way down her throat and into the abyss that is her stomach. She sighs as it settles. Then, I offer her my seat. She takes that gladly, too.
She is beautiful in the sunlight from the window. She lies prone on the divan, feet bare, shoulders also uncovered.
damn, ok this is difficult. 60 seconds for one word. I am a servant to a lot of things. I am a servant of my own mind it seems sometimes. As much meditation as I try to do and whatnot I still feel my lakc of thoughts controlling me
She rang a delicate sterling bell, and a man appeared, adorned in a sleek black & white uniform.