There was a pair of ski boots in the corner, gathering dust. Other signs of sporting activity littered the room, but only the wheelchair was showing signs of recent use.
On a dark road my boots scraped the ground. The drug as my tired step slowed. I didn’t know how much further I could walk, but if I didn’t I would surely die there. They would find my body the next morning and wonder where I’d been, and where I was going.
she had wore the boots. the boot were not hers! how dare she. she slid them on like a loose pair of pants, she didn’t even, despite the fact they smelt like a wet dog! Unfortunately she suited them.
the boots were stained with mud—not jsut any mud–the kind that drys before it settles and stains. the kind of mud that is prized—adds character—creates favor in the boots. the stains on the boots made them beautiful.
Small boots, big boots. But the ones i love are the leather boots. The stitching, the smell, the comfort. It brings up the memories of camping and roasting marshmallows on fire.The smell of trees and the chirping of birds. This is home. This is what I’ve been waiting for. They are my journey to greatness, my reminder to always come back, that I am not alone. I am never alone.
boots always make me think of winter. whether it’s trudging through the tall, freezing snow, or just lounging around the chilly house in slipper boots… I’m almost always wearing them when it’s cold out.
Small boots, big boots. But the ones i love are the leather boots. The stitching, the smell, the comfort. It brings up the memories of camping and roasting marshmallows on fire.
Sometimes I like to wear cowboy boots.
I come from a very “country” place so this isn’t really out of the ordinary.
Most people wouldn’t expect it from me, but I like them.
They make me feel powerful.
winter time is when you wear boots. brown black and any other color you can think. snow rain fancy nights out whatever the occasion. you can wear them wherever. they can be comfortable or uncomfortable. cute or not cute. high heels or not high heels.
as i pulled on my boots , i thought about where i would go. what would happen to me once i stepped out the door. i wondered quietly to myself what would become of me once i left you behind. as i laced up my boots i realized i didnt really care, anything was bound to be better then this.
I pulled on my boots, and they were caked with mud. I had enevr thought to clean them, they had never appeared wor to me. they were just as much a part of my as my hands, although I realized, now, that whose were worn too. But despite the dirt and elements, they did not lose their touch, their feeling.
Her boots clicked across the floor, pacing back and forth as she argued. The words were clipped, more growls and sighs of exasperation than complete thoughts. He sat on the couch and sipped his beer, torn between trying to ease her anguish and trying to avoid her wrath.
Boots. They go everywhere with you, don’t they? They go shopping, bowling, movie-hopping, clubbing. They go all the places you’ve been in them, and yet they don’t mean anything. They’re just boots. Shoes. Footwear. Like thongs aren’t the beach and ski-shoes aren’t the snow, they’re just leather or vinyl or plastic.
I got the boots when I was four. They didn’t fit anymore of course, but I kept them for the sake of it. I liked having them, sitting there collecting dust on my mantlepiece. Most people asked ‘why those boots?’. I could never quite answer that question.
“Because,” I would say.
Boots is the monkey that follows Dora around. Boots are the things that protect my feet while I walk. So when I think of boots, I think of a protector. That’s what boots do. They help us on our way.
I think back to all those times that I felt I needed someone there–anyone, but not really. There was always that one person, that one so easily imagined. Just someone to stay and listen and make the thoughts and criticism stop.
I snap out of my reverie and finish lacing my boots. Door slams behind me, walking down the hall, another door, cold wind on my face. I don’t need anyone. That’s true enough. But sometimes I want someone. Wanting and needing are two very different things, you see.
These boots were made for walking. I know that it sounds trite and that everyone would think of the Nancy Sinatra song. In this time of my life I need to let my boots hit the ground and go for the next stage. Don’t tie em up and don’t worry about what they look like with my outfit. Just take the boots onto the pavement and move forward.
Boots is a character from Dora the Explorer. He is a sychopathic monkey that kills people on a daily basis. If you ever see boots, be sure to call the cops right away and stay away from trees and bananas.
It’s funny. The first thing that came to mind was not the boots that I wore today. I thought about Boots, or De’mon Brooks of the Davidson Wildcats. It’s crazy how much she’s influenced me and the impact she’s had on my life. I love sushi, Kina Grannis, and Ultimate because of her. She got me to ride a horse and helped me become a better person as I work to be the perfect boyfriend for her. She makes me who I am and I feel incomplete without her. Never could of imagined this cute girl I met as a freshman would become the love of my life. And now I’ll be a Davidson fan forever.
these boots are made for walking,
and that is precisely what they’ll do.
i’m sorry to tell you
but
one of these days
these boots
are going to walk all over you.
These boots were made for walking. I know that it sounds trite and that everyone would think of the Nancy Sinatra song. In this time of my life I need to let my boots hit the ground and go for the next stage. Don’t tie em up and don’t worry about what they look like with my outfit. Just take the boots onto the pavement and move forward.
Little Sally loved to play,
She played in the rain all day.
Before she’d go outside her mother would say,
“Sally, don’t forget your boots, wouldn’t want to catch a cold today.”
“Don’t they look smashing?” She looked down, clicking her heels together merrily as she did so.
I barely restrained the urge to roll my eyes. “They’re just boots, Shara,”
Noting my dismissive tone, she looked up, a pout etched on her lips. “How can you say that?”
I sighed. “What do you WANT me to say?”
“I want you to say that they’re not boots. They’re BOOTS,” she emphasized, clicking her heels together once more.
These boots weren’t made for walking… I’ve seen far too much. 20 years here and there you mock me for my age. I’ve seen the world the good and bad, all of it’s the same. With boots in hand I tread the land and make this bitch my own.
Click…click..click. My black leather heeled boots are the lone sound in the hallway. Gazing at my forlorn reflection in the window at the end of the wall i continue on. I am numb to anything around me. The sterile white walls and white floors remind me that I am a prisoner. I turn the corner only to find an identical hallway. I can’t escape. Slowly in a catatonic state, I stare ahead and take steady steps. Click…click…click, the noise fills the empty space. Click… thud thud…click….thud thud. Between steps my tortured heart beats in sync. Turning yet another corner the same sight awaits. The same white hallway with the same window at the end taunts my wretched soul. Looking at my black leather boots, they rebel against their white surroundings. Looking back towards the window I know what I must do. Gazing back towards the stark contrast of the black boots against the white I start to run, click, click, click, thud thud, click, click, click. The sound of my footsteps increases with my heart beat. The hallway seems to bounce up and down, and the only stable thing is the window at the end which my eyes are fixed on. It comes closer and closer until it collides with my body. Shattering, shards of glass fly through the air along with myself. Face first in the snow outside, the shards rain back down on me. I am alone now, out in a white snowy world. The black leather once again rebels against its white surroundings, however there is another rebel in the premises. A deep red color stains the snow seeping from my spot. Laying limp, the white fades, the hospital building fades, the snowy world fades, even the glass and the blood fades. My eyes see black, but it isn’t from my leather boots this time. This time the blackness is the color of death. Slipping from this white world, this enormous prison, this hospital for souls, I am free. But the freedom comes with a price. The freedom is only seconds long, and the price is death. Death.
She pulled on her boots….light deerskin slippers that her grandfather made for her 16th year.
It seemed so very long ago….a small girl at his knee watching him sew with slow hands…
the hands of a hunter, brown and nimble.
thumpety thump, is that all? Use them all the time now. Need new trainers. My boots aren’t made for the everyday stuff, yet here they are. It’s them or the smart shoes, and the smart shoes just aren’t built for the life I lead. I seem to spend an awful lot of my time jumping over puddles.
“I am an American soldier.” That ethos was ringing in his ears. There was no way of knowing what was going to happen when he stepped off that plane. Crowded in with 100 other people dressed exactly like him and strapped down so tight all they could do for the 10 hour flight was think. And everyone was thinking the same thought… “will I make it out of this?”
I don’t scrimp, I’m just an uptown man walkin downtown in a new pair of boots. A lot of times I’ve said (and I really mean this) that I am truly knowable to people who make the effort. And swivel me in a chair if that ain’t the truth, hon’! I can be a bee or not if you want, but just make the effort!
the boots were shiny, with softly crinkled brown leather and shiny gold clasps on the outsides. she wore them with embarrassment, afraid that they were too fancy, and afraid that they brought too much attention to her elastic-clad, jiggly thighs
It had been a long day and it was beginning to take its toll~ the peaty soil was saturated by the constant lashing rain and Brians fingers had lost all feeling… still he forged on, as the task in hand was too huge to procrastinate on.
As the body flopped into the watery pit, Brians temper flared once more as a trickle entered his boots.
I pulled on my snow boots, hoping that this would be the last time. We were leaving this forsaken outpost in a week, and of course we had to be given a “farewell” gift of a foot of snow.
Boots are kind of funny.
Because they’re very practical, depending on what kind you wear.
They protect your precious little feet from cold, water, snow, mud, all of that.
But no one wears boots in the Summer.
Why not?
High black boots would go perfectly with my leather sleeved dress that stops just above the knee. It’s a winter statement. People move swiftly in boots, and clench the kegel muscles a bit more, speak surely, and fling hair back.
I hurry down the empty street, dark but for the sulphur yellow light that lurks in the shadows. There is not much time, I can tell. There is a thumping of boots behind me; shiny and new for those that choose to wear such a corrupted uniform. My ruined shoes are briefly caught in the dull glare of a street lamp, showing a glimpse of reality, and showing why I run.
There was a pair of ski boots in the corner, gathering dust. Other signs of sporting activity littered the room, but only the wheelchair was showing signs of recent use.
On a dark road my boots scraped the ground. The drug as my tired step slowed. I didn’t know how much further I could walk, but if I didn’t I would surely die there. They would find my body the next morning and wonder where I’d been, and where I was going.
she had wore the boots. the boot were not hers! how dare she. she slid them on like a loose pair of pants, she didn’t even, despite the fact they smelt like a wet dog! Unfortunately she suited them.
the boots were stained with mud—not jsut any mud–the kind that drys before it settles and stains. the kind of mud that is prized—adds character—creates favor in the boots. the stains on the boots made them beautiful.
Small boots, big boots. But the ones i love are the leather boots. The stitching, the smell, the comfort. It brings up the memories of camping and roasting marshmallows on fire.The smell of trees and the chirping of birds. This is home. This is what I’ve been waiting for. They are my journey to greatness, my reminder to always come back, that I am not alone. I am never alone.
boots always make me think of winter. whether it’s trudging through the tall, freezing snow, or just lounging around the chilly house in slipper boots… I’m almost always wearing them when it’s cold out.
Small boots, big boots. But the ones i love are the leather boots. The stitching, the smell, the comfort. It brings up the memories of camping and roasting marshmallows on fire.
Sometimes I like to wear cowboy boots.
I come from a very “country” place so this isn’t really out of the ordinary.
Most people wouldn’t expect it from me, but I like them.
They make me feel powerful.
winter time is when you wear boots. brown black and any other color you can think. snow rain fancy nights out whatever the occasion. you can wear them wherever. they can be comfortable or uncomfortable. cute or not cute. high heels or not high heels.
as i pulled on my boots , i thought about where i would go. what would happen to me once i stepped out the door. i wondered quietly to myself what would become of me once i left you behind. as i laced up my boots i realized i didnt really care, anything was bound to be better then this.
I pulled on my boots, and they were caked with mud. I had enevr thought to clean them, they had never appeared wor to me. they were just as much a part of my as my hands, although I realized, now, that whose were worn too. But despite the dirt and elements, they did not lose their touch, their feeling.
Puss in Boots.
Her boots clicked across the floor, pacing back and forth as she argued. The words were clipped, more growls and sighs of exasperation than complete thoughts. He sat on the couch and sipped his beer, torn between trying to ease her anguish and trying to avoid her wrath.
Boots. They go everywhere with you, don’t they? They go shopping, bowling, movie-hopping, clubbing. They go all the places you’ve been in them, and yet they don’t mean anything. They’re just boots. Shoes. Footwear. Like thongs aren’t the beach and ski-shoes aren’t the snow, they’re just leather or vinyl or plastic.
I got the boots when I was four. They didn’t fit anymore of course, but I kept them for the sake of it. I liked having them, sitting there collecting dust on my mantlepiece. Most people asked ‘why those boots?’. I could never quite answer that question.
“Because,” I would say.
Boots is the monkey that follows Dora around. Boots are the things that protect my feet while I walk. So when I think of boots, I think of a protector. That’s what boots do. They help us on our way.
Good for rainy days
Character from Dora
Good for snow days
Fun and fashionable to wear
Boots are awesome!!!!!
Kept together in a neat little pair by the door
The only thing you bring with you each day
As you greet the world’s next filthy adventure
I think back to all those times that I felt I needed someone there–anyone, but not really. There was always that one person, that one so easily imagined. Just someone to stay and listen and make the thoughts and criticism stop.
I snap out of my reverie and finish lacing my boots. Door slams behind me, walking down the hall, another door, cold wind on my face. I don’t need anyone. That’s true enough. But sometimes I want someone. Wanting and needing are two very different things, you see.
These boots were made for walking. I know that it sounds trite and that everyone would think of the Nancy Sinatra song. In this time of my life I need to let my boots hit the ground and go for the next stage. Don’t tie em up and don’t worry about what they look like with my outfit. Just take the boots onto the pavement and move forward.
Boots is a character from Dora the Explorer. He is a sychopathic monkey that kills people on a daily basis. If you ever see boots, be sure to call the cops right away and stay away from trees and bananas.
It’s funny. The first thing that came to mind was not the boots that I wore today. I thought about Boots, or De’mon Brooks of the Davidson Wildcats. It’s crazy how much she’s influenced me and the impact she’s had on my life. I love sushi, Kina Grannis, and Ultimate because of her. She got me to ride a horse and helped me become a better person as I work to be the perfect boyfriend for her. She makes me who I am and I feel incomplete without her. Never could of imagined this cute girl I met as a freshman would become the love of my life. And now I’ll be a Davidson fan forever.
these boots are made for walking,
and that is precisely what they’ll do.
i’m sorry to tell you
but
one of these days
these boots
are going to walk all over you.
These boots were made for walking. I know that it sounds trite and that everyone would think of the Nancy Sinatra song. In this time of my life I need to let my boots hit the ground and go for the next stage. Don’t tie em up and don’t worry about what they look like with my outfit. Just take the boots onto the pavement and move forward.
Little Sally loved to play,
She played in the rain all day.
Before she’d go outside her mother would say,
“Sally, don’t forget your boots, wouldn’t want to catch a cold today.”
“Don’t they look smashing?” She looked down, clicking her heels together merrily as she did so.
I barely restrained the urge to roll my eyes. “They’re just boots, Shara,”
Noting my dismissive tone, she looked up, a pout etched on her lips. “How can you say that?”
I sighed. “What do you WANT me to say?”
“I want you to say that they’re not boots. They’re BOOTS,” she emphasized, clicking her heels together once more.
These boots weren’t made for walking… I’ve seen far too much. 20 years here and there you mock me for my age. I’ve seen the world the good and bad, all of it’s the same. With boots in hand I tread the land and make this bitch my own.
Her mother disproved her wearing those black army boots. Did not fitted her young age, she said. Where too dark and serious for such a lovely girl.
Click…click..click. My black leather heeled boots are the lone sound in the hallway. Gazing at my forlorn reflection in the window at the end of the wall i continue on. I am numb to anything around me. The sterile white walls and white floors remind me that I am a prisoner. I turn the corner only to find an identical hallway. I can’t escape. Slowly in a catatonic state, I stare ahead and take steady steps. Click…click…click, the noise fills the empty space. Click… thud thud…click….thud thud. Between steps my tortured heart beats in sync. Turning yet another corner the same sight awaits. The same white hallway with the same window at the end taunts my wretched soul. Looking at my black leather boots, they rebel against their white surroundings. Looking back towards the window I know what I must do. Gazing back towards the stark contrast of the black boots against the white I start to run, click, click, click, thud thud, click, click, click. The sound of my footsteps increases with my heart beat. The hallway seems to bounce up and down, and the only stable thing is the window at the end which my eyes are fixed on. It comes closer and closer until it collides with my body. Shattering, shards of glass fly through the air along with myself. Face first in the snow outside, the shards rain back down on me. I am alone now, out in a white snowy world. The black leather once again rebels against its white surroundings, however there is another rebel in the premises. A deep red color stains the snow seeping from my spot. Laying limp, the white fades, the hospital building fades, the snowy world fades, even the glass and the blood fades. My eyes see black, but it isn’t from my leather boots this time. This time the blackness is the color of death. Slipping from this white world, this enormous prison, this hospital for souls, I am free. But the freedom comes with a price. The freedom is only seconds long, and the price is death. Death.
She pulled on her boots….light deerskin slippers that her grandfather made for her 16th year.
It seemed so very long ago….a small girl at his knee watching him sew with slow hands…
the hands of a hunter, brown and nimble.
thumpety thump, is that all? Use them all the time now. Need new trainers. My boots aren’t made for the everyday stuff, yet here they are. It’s them or the smart shoes, and the smart shoes just aren’t built for the life I lead. I seem to spend an awful lot of my time jumping over puddles.
“I am an American soldier.” That ethos was ringing in his ears. There was no way of knowing what was going to happen when he stepped off that plane. Crowded in with 100 other people dressed exactly like him and strapped down so tight all they could do for the 10 hour flight was think. And everyone was thinking the same thought… “will I make it out of this?”
I don’t scrimp, I’m just an uptown man walkin downtown in a new pair of boots. A lot of times I’ve said (and I really mean this) that I am truly knowable to people who make the effort. And swivel me in a chair if that ain’t the truth, hon’! I can be a bee or not if you want, but just make the effort!
the boots were shiny, with softly crinkled brown leather and shiny gold clasps on the outsides. she wore them with embarrassment, afraid that they were too fancy, and afraid that they brought too much attention to her elastic-clad, jiggly thighs
It had been a long day and it was beginning to take its toll~ the peaty soil was saturated by the constant lashing rain and Brians fingers had lost all feeling… still he forged on, as the task in hand was too huge to procrastinate on.
As the body flopped into the watery pit, Brians temper flared once more as a trickle entered his boots.
I pulled on my snow boots, hoping that this would be the last time. We were leaving this forsaken outpost in a week, and of course we had to be given a “farewell” gift of a foot of snow.
Grin and bear it. In a week, we’re out of here.
Boots are kind of funny.
Because they’re very practical, depending on what kind you wear.
They protect your precious little feet from cold, water, snow, mud, all of that.
But no one wears boots in the Summer.
Why not?
High black boots would go perfectly with my leather sleeved dress that stops just above the knee. It’s a winter statement. People move swiftly in boots, and clench the kegel muscles a bit more, speak surely, and fling hair back.
I hurry down the empty street, dark but for the sulphur yellow light that lurks in the shadows. There is not much time, I can tell. There is a thumping of boots behind me; shiny and new for those that choose to wear such a corrupted uniform. My ruined shoes are briefly caught in the dull glare of a street lamp, showing a glimpse of reality, and showing why I run.
too big for ya boots, darlin. look at you, happy and smiling like you;’ve done nothing
wrong.
leave me alone to not crying over you. i’m done being your shadow. i don’t want to think. having no thoughts is ex- ilerating