The bars are the general term used on so many places. I remember while i used tyo do sums of physics i used to have a common word Bar. A bar of length etc……
Like a telephone commercial, or a cold-blooded killer in his cell. A place where lonely people meet. I use it to make bubbles and scrub the tub. Its gold, its chocolate, its granola. Monkeys and children love bars.
i used to like to go to them. they should be raised in life. challenge and all. i think that they are home to a sad many. i like working in one though. get to talk to lots of people and laugh with lots of people. don’t like telling people that enough is enough though. i think i have used my minute.
I went to my first bar last night. They didn’t care that i was 12 years old, i didn’t care that they were a bunch of outlaws on the run from the law. i got drunk off of three long island iced teas and took home what i think was a prostitute. That was a night i’ll never forget. I went back to the bar this morning to retreive my watch–a rolex. it was gone and so was my innocence. something I’ll never get back.
They came crashing down around me, pushing me back in fear. Only bleak light filtered through the very even lines, surrounding me on three out of four sides. With a wall to my back, I was surrounded. Imprisoned.
Standing behind the bars, he waited for the sun to set behind his closed eyes. It was the end of another long day and he waited for night to descend in the cell. Not that any light ewas visible through the high small window, but
she entered the edge of the walkway, she knew there was no way thru the bars, no way to escape. but she continued, backed up against the metal grating. she wished for her hero, the man who always came to rescue her, at least in her dreams. where was he. the man in the long coat with the fancy name. she knew there was no more time. she closed her eyes and took a deep breath….
I look through the bars at the children in the yard.. I yearned to feel the simple pleasure of being young and not attached to responsibilities that willl load up over the years and the innocent play of youth will be gone … and
Go downtown, look around, who’s there? Will I dance? Will I make a show? Will I wax poetic in the hopes of going home with some moderate dark stranger? Why drink? Why binge? Why feel like I only find me in the drink? Bars. My life.
bars of steel are holding me back. i can’t reach what i want. they are strong, and i am weak. bars of steel to keep me from what i love, what i need. bars of steel, stronger than anything.
Bars of a prison cell: cold, dark, oppressive. They hold two worlds apart. Two worlds so different – yet with the same men in them. They are granfalloons – there is no difference.
bars are like candy but not really… sometimes they are like uh i don’t know what else to write so now I’m drawing a godamn blank and so I’ll write about that. Screw your bars and screw your candy. I don’t have to do what you say!!!!!
Bars on the window of her little house defined her view of the world. Could she ever live without them?
Safe, but caged.
Staring in the mirror, she even felt she was drawing bars as she etched the eyeliner on her lids, dressing to go nowhere at all.
Did anything even matter any more?
What bars a person from doing the right thing? What dense and unseccable net of prohibitions and fears holds her back, keeps her from taking her steps? How does one cut through such a net?
bars are great for keeping things in place. I have bars on my windowss… i want to get out! i want to get out of here nownwownownwonwnow! i don’t know why they keep me here i didn’t do anything wrong! it wan’t my fault that that polar bear got stranded in the desert it just ran away from me.
i remember how cold they were when i shook them, trying to escape from this cell you put me in. those bars, friends of the metal spikes right at the top of the tall tall wall. then one day, one of them gave way.
today is the day i am breaking down walls, breaking down doors, breaking breaking breaking the bars of this cage. i am a free bird once more. my wings spread far and wide and i feel wind, i feel courage, i feel triumphant and above all else. nothing can hold me back. i am the only thing that can stop me.
so manyu of them lodged in my memery. I used to work in them, I think part of me died in them as well. Its not that IU was a drinker,it’s not that at all. The reason is more obscure than that. I watched changes happen and I saw the death of many. Spiritual death…spiritual changes. The underground was where it all happened, and the world is in a state of flux because of it. It will never be the same again.
Changes, who would have thought that it would all start there?
“no but hum a few bars and I’ll play it for you…”
That was the problem with this no good hick town, no culture. Damn backward hillbillies had never even heard of Coltrane let alone knew one of his songs. Sometimes, a lot of the times, I view my job as a public service. This was just such a time.
I cocked the hammer back, chambered a round and prepared to go to work.
eine bar mitten in der wüste. nichts darum herum ausser ein weinglas, das zu boden schellt und zerbricht. ich die scherben aufnehme und sie zusammen setze zu einem luftballon den ich fliegen lasse und der mich zu dir trägt.
Being as I turned 21 a few weeks before I was shipped overseas by the Navy, I haven’t spent much time in the traditional American bar. The bar I would love to spend most of my time in when I finally get to go back home would be the pub I worked in as support staff. Just hang out, drink a microbrew beer, and enjoy the scenery.
I was stuck in there. Nowhere to go. I was trapped. They had kidnapped me, taken me from home… now, people watched me, laughed at me, took pictures. Back home, I was a king, with a wife, two children… I had it all.
bars of soap.
What the hell happened to all the bars of soap lately? did someone steal them?
a bar soap stealer?
making millions of moolah from the black market-
pfft.
aint need none of that nowdays.
got me herer some liquid soap i do!
helpful none the less, but always slipping through my fingers.
and never will i have to ever try pick up a bar of soap.
a threatening situation indeed.
This room is filled with bars, ones which I find myself unable to escape from. They hold me prisoner. And I’m so behind on all this work, I’ll never be an outstanding author at this rate, you know!
when i have to walk along side of them at sh=chool and im eight years old. i hate school. my feild is big and i have nothing to do. my mom wants to pick me and my friend up on her bicycle. i love my mom. i love my mom. i went to school and tore my leg open again. i had done it when i was riding a bike. at a soccer practice at my school, my bike got stolen. i love bikes
bars are full of noisey alcholic footy players. well thats not tru but its the first thing i think of. I guess gambeling and pnuts are other things that come to mind, which is weird, and kind of amazes me, as i know thats not typical of all bars. Why i thought of places to drink rather than bars on a…jail? is beyond me.
little sparkling gems of rooms tucked off the main drag, full of light and laughter and crystalline glugs of wine and high spirits. it is here that we make connections; here that we find love, laughter, and here where we seek refuge from the things in our lives we don’t want to face.
it is here that we can be anyone at all;
tinker.
sailor.
soldier.
sailor.
rich man.
poor man.
beggar girl.
nobody.
Everywhere you find the bars. In the church, they block the stain glass windows. In the park, they loom up before the dewy grass. If you want to become a dancing magician who runs a flea circus, your parents shower them all around the idea, and when you reach for the moon, the stars tsk beyond their long, dark iron.
The bars of the fencing on the flyover, overlooking the dual carriageway. A sight I’m used to.
My aunt once knew a lady who threw herself off that flyover, she survived because it’s not very high.
bars i used to play on as a child remind me of how i loved being alive. Things have changed so much these days. Back then we were in a hurry to be older and more independant… now, what i would give just to be a child again for a day. How things change. How hard it is now just to get through a day
behind the bars are many solomn things like eyes of blue roads of discontents. its nice to say you’ll get out but that wont ever really happen
The bars are the general term used on so many places. I remember while i used tyo do sums of physics i used to have a common word Bar. A bar of length etc……
Like a telephone commercial, or a cold-blooded killer in his cell. A place where lonely people meet. I use it to make bubbles and scrub the tub. Its gold, its chocolate, its granola. Monkeys and children love bars.
i used to like to go to them. they should be raised in life. challenge and all. i think that they are home to a sad many. i like working in one though. get to talk to lots of people and laugh with lots of people. don’t like telling people that enough is enough though. i think i have used my minute.
The smell of a true bar, a pub is comforting. Funny, in jail they contain you but with alchol they free you.
I went to my first bar last night. They didn’t care that i was 12 years old, i didn’t care that they were a bunch of outlaws on the run from the law. i got drunk off of three long island iced teas and took home what i think was a prostitute. That was a night i’ll never forget. I went back to the bar this morning to retreive my watch–a rolex. it was gone and so was my innocence. something I’ll never get back.
They came crashing down around me, pushing me back in fear. Only bleak light filtered through the very even lines, surrounding me on three out of four sides. With a wall to my back, I was surrounded. Imprisoned.
Standing behind the bars, he waited for the sun to set behind his closed eyes. It was the end of another long day and he waited for night to descend in the cell. Not that any light ewas visible through the high small window, but
she entered the edge of the walkway, she knew there was no way thru the bars, no way to escape. but she continued, backed up against the metal grating. she wished for her hero, the man who always came to rescue her, at least in her dreams. where was he. the man in the long coat with the fancy name. she knew there was no more time. she closed her eyes and took a deep breath….
I look through the bars at the children in the yard.. I yearned to feel the simple pleasure of being young and not attached to responsibilities that willl load up over the years and the innocent play of youth will be gone … and
Go downtown, look around, who’s there? Will I dance? Will I make a show? Will I wax poetic in the hopes of going home with some moderate dark stranger? Why drink? Why binge? Why feel like I only find me in the drink? Bars. My life.
bars of steel are holding me back. i can’t reach what i want. they are strong, and i am weak. bars of steel to keep me from what i love, what i need. bars of steel, stronger than anything.
Bars of a prison cell: cold, dark, oppressive. They hold two worlds apart. Two worlds so different – yet with the same men in them. They are granfalloons – there is no difference.
bars are like candy but not really… sometimes they are like uh i don’t know what else to write so now I’m drawing a godamn blank and so I’ll write about that. Screw your bars and screw your candy. I don’t have to do what you say!!!!!
rock sticking up from the ground like bars in a prison cell, the earth is the prison floor the sky the roof being held up by the bars.
Bars on the window of her little house defined her view of the world. Could she ever live without them?
Safe, but caged.
Staring in the mirror, she even felt she was drawing bars as she etched the eyeliner on her lids, dressing to go nowhere at all.
Did anything even matter any more?
What bars a person from doing the right thing? What dense and unseccable net of prohibitions and fears holds her back, keeps her from taking her steps? How does one cut through such a net?
bars are great for keeping things in place. I have bars on my windowss… i want to get out! i want to get out of here nownwownownwonwnow! i don’t know why they keep me here i didn’t do anything wrong! it wan’t my fault that that polar bear got stranded in the desert it just ran away from me.
i remember how cold they were when i shook them, trying to escape from this cell you put me in. those bars, friends of the metal spikes right at the top of the tall tall wall. then one day, one of them gave way.
They cover the cell, holding me captive of the words I desperately want to shout in your face.
I remember bars as a kid. They were always very dark and you knew you shouldn’t be in there. Men mostly. Why was I there i don’t remember. Looking
today is the day i am breaking down walls, breaking down doors, breaking breaking breaking the bars of this cage. i am a free bird once more. my wings spread far and wide and i feel wind, i feel courage, i feel triumphant and above all else. nothing can hold me back. i am the only thing that can stop me.
so manyu of them lodged in my memery. I used to work in them, I think part of me died in them as well. Its not that IU was a drinker,it’s not that at all. The reason is more obscure than that. I watched changes happen and I saw the death of many. Spiritual death…spiritual changes. The underground was where it all happened, and the world is in a state of flux because of it. It will never be the same again.
Changes, who would have thought that it would all start there?
“no but hum a few bars and I’ll play it for you…”
That was the problem with this no good hick town, no culture. Damn backward hillbillies had never even heard of Coltrane let alone knew one of his songs. Sometimes, a lot of the times, I view my job as a public service. This was just such a time.
I cocked the hammer back, chambered a round and prepared to go to work.
eine bar mitten in der wüste. nichts darum herum ausser ein weinglas, das zu boden schellt und zerbricht. ich die scherben aufnehme und sie zusammen setze zu einem luftballon den ich fliegen lasse und der mich zu dir trägt.
don’t let bars get in your way in life.
Being as I turned 21 a few weeks before I was shipped overseas by the Navy, I haven’t spent much time in the traditional American bar. The bar I would love to spend most of my time in when I finally get to go back home would be the pub I worked in as support staff. Just hang out, drink a microbrew beer, and enjoy the scenery.
I was stuck in there. Nowhere to go. I was trapped. They had kidnapped me, taken me from home… now, people watched me, laughed at me, took pictures. Back home, I was a king, with a wife, two children… I had it all.
bars of soap.
What the hell happened to all the bars of soap lately? did someone steal them?
a bar soap stealer?
making millions of moolah from the black market-
pfft.
aint need none of that nowdays.
got me herer some liquid soap i do!
helpful none the less, but always slipping through my fingers.
and never will i have to ever try pick up a bar of soap.
a threatening situation indeed.
smoke seeps through my lungs at the bar. it’s the third time i have been here this week, and i am sure a tumor is forming already from the smoke.
chocolate bars.
sometimes i like them.
and bars. yeah…
This room is filled with bars, ones which I find myself unable to escape from. They hold me prisoner. And I’m so behind on all this work, I’ll never be an outstanding author at this rate, you know!
when i have to walk along side of them at sh=chool and im eight years old. i hate school. my feild is big and i have nothing to do. my mom wants to pick me and my friend up on her bicycle. i love my mom. i love my mom. i went to school and tore my leg open again. i had done it when i was riding a bike. at a soccer practice at my school, my bike got stolen. i love bikes
bars are full of noisey alcholic footy players. well thats not tru but its the first thing i think of. I guess gambeling and pnuts are other things that come to mind, which is weird, and kind of amazes me, as i know thats not typical of all bars. Why i thought of places to drink rather than bars on a…jail? is beyond me.
little sparkling gems of rooms tucked off the main drag, full of light and laughter and crystalline glugs of wine and high spirits. it is here that we make connections; here that we find love, laughter, and here where we seek refuge from the things in our lives we don’t want to face.
it is here that we can be anyone at all;
tinker.
sailor.
soldier.
sailor.
rich man.
poor man.
beggar girl.
nobody.
Everywhere you find the bars. In the church, they block the stain glass windows. In the park, they loom up before the dewy grass. If you want to become a dancing magician who runs a flea circus, your parents shower them all around the idea, and when you reach for the moon, the stars tsk beyond their long, dark iron.
places where people drink
The bars of the fencing on the flyover, overlooking the dual carriageway. A sight I’m used to.
My aunt once knew a lady who threw herself off that flyover, she survived because it’s not very high.
i write 16 bars
in 16 bars
about 16 bars
and drink out of 16 jars
dreamin about my 16 cars
while I have sex with 16 stars
bars i used to play on as a child remind me of how i loved being alive. Things have changed so much these days. Back then we were in a hurry to be older and more independant… now, what i would give just to be a child again for a day. How things change. How hard it is now just to get through a day