Sloane was here and i love chicken and mustashes and i like to not do homework and i dont like school and i am awesome and stuff yay i your so amazing good for you!! yay i like pandas and hope is my friend! :)
she let the lid fall. threw the dirt. beneath the dirt, the white man lay, paler than life. So pale. full of death, full of cold. she mourned the hot air escaped from him, the blood sunk from his cheeks, his eyes that had shone, that had looked to her with excitement, with lust. he’d not known, he had trusted her; that made it harder. no man had trusted her – no man had been submissive. that was the special quality that made him necessary; her freedom for his life. now she lived a monstrous freedom, a beast within. now she was at liberty. shine on, the eyes. please. but regret is cheap. regret is the fuel of the beast. like every other of her kind, she feeds grief with grief, fuels regret with rage; she tears the body to pieces aching to catch the soul. she cannot see the soul, it is not one of the gifts she is given; because she cannot see the soul, she feels pieces of her own slip away, through her lips, and she tries to catch them, transparent butterflies, casting her feeble net.
bury bury fury fury. I’ve no idea today. Let’s just bury, what make us fury, and let all go away. I really dont know what to say, let’s just move away. For another day, any day.
I went to the cemetery on Friday in the rain.
The orange and yellow Kalanchoe flowers lit up the dark day.
I talked to you as I always do and you listened as you used to do.
Somehow it felt good to unburden myself. I placed pine cones on the headstone.
I just kept digging, deeper and deep into the ground. This was one thing no one could ever know about ever. The little box in my hand was hardly bigger then my fist, but it needed to be buried deep into the ground.
finding my buried thoughts. too deep. too many feelings. buried. the buried life in me ceases to arise. well, yes, the tombstone is in place. the death of you and i, it is spiteful. yes, honesty buried deep within,.
The old man buried his face inside the wooly scarf that was bundled around his neck. Lapsing quietly into a slumber, he rested beneath the canopy of trees that provided shade for his front porch.
I want to bury myself in you. You’re my joy. All I see in you is a light that i need to revel into my darkness. I want to bury myself in your arms and cry about how miserable i’ve been. Where have you been? I am buried under lies and deciet. I need you. Bury me in you.
“i buried my dreams of you and i, i buried my expections of how life wold be, i buried my soul and now i no longer live” (by why i ask myself why did you bury yourself for the world)
This is a test about how to use this website. I wonder how I will be buried? Should I be cremated? Burial is an interesting thing. I have always been claust
While sitting here in the lounge contemplating how to deal with a lazy, inconsiderate and unsociable housemate I wonder if I should just deal with the problem instead of burying it like I always do. I suppose it might make me feel better.
My surface so thin, what people perceive from a glance. And it can be peeled away so easily, if one would take the time to uncover what lies underneath.
The mantle the layer of all that makes me who I am; as well as what separates the surface from the core. So much that is constantly churning, festering, to burst at any moment. And the gravest of secrets buried deeper, to where no explorer could imagine to reach.
And the core, the spine, is the center to who I am. It is the gravity to who I am. And only I can reach it, only I can feel it, as it is the orbit, the linch pin, that I revolve around.
Coffins. People being buried alive in the older times and graveyard shifts when they had bells next to the gravestones incase someone was alive. And scratch marks on the inside of the coffin when the bell wasnt there…
Suffocation.
Death.
graveyard, mother, I’ve never felt more pain. coffin, treasure, pirates, johnny depp, movies, acting, life, masks, the pain of seeing family being buried.
We had to bury all of them, all old associates, barely qualified as friends. But in the ground, they became more — turning in dirt and worms, tunneling into our brains, until we were forced to recognize them as kin. And so marinated, they rose again, our brethren, our wives and lovers. Our very future.
Let me not bury those memories for i don;t want to forget those. let me not bury the pain and happiness because they are already part of who I am. And let me not bury my love for you.
i bury my face in your neck. you smell strong of cologne, a cologne that reminds me of my father. the smell is too strong, and i pull away from you. my memories must always haunt me in this way, constantly depriving me of my secret hopes and dreams. my heart sinks in my chest as i make the decision of never to bury myself into your arms again, it would never do anything but harm.
nothing but blackness surrounds,
no air,
no sunlight,
no sign of life.
just decades of memories.
maybe centuries.
there below the sand.
is the legacy of pirates.
in a trunk.
never to be seen by sore eyes
again.
January. That month. It was the month we had to bury my mother. 48 years is not a long life, but it’s not particularly a short one. Her life was cut short by cancer, and God only knows what she could have accomplished if she wouldn’t have gotten sick.
Hello world. I love everything about this whole Internet thing. So why is it so damn important to stay on top? If we are not the best, let other be it, and enjoy their work, it may inspire more people than we think.
when his fist came crashing down on me, I knew this was the end. No matter how much evidence I had to bury him in, it all came down to the raw, physical power we each held; I never stood a chance. Oh, I tried to be sure, raised my arms in
I think that sometimes it’s okay to bury secrets. If telling the secret will cause a lot of hurt, and really achieve nothing more than alleviating the guilt of the secret holder, then best they live with the lie and let the other stay in peace.
When I was a little boy I used to bury my toys in the ground and tell my mother that I could not find them. I cannot understand now, why I would like doing something like that looking back now.
All i can think about is the moments that led me here. Standing with a shovel over the most disgraceful thing i have ever done. Blood streaks my hands and I know that endless scrubbing will never erase them. The rain pours down and lightning streaks the horizon. The cemetary is dark and the gate swings open and shut, like the ghost of the girl laying lifeless at my feet is coming back to avenge herself. I don’t know what to do. Run? Fight? All i know is that i have to bury this girl. All i have to do is bury. Her eyes are closed. Thank god those eyes are closed. When they were open she would stare into my own eyes. Stare so deep it was like she was scrutinizing my soul. Her tear streaked face is now palish green and muddy with splatters of blood staining her perfect completion, like ink on a newly printed page. There is nothing I can do to erase what i have done, just as there is nothing you can do when you print black ink onto a perfect white sheet of paper. I hear a noise and whip my head around to see a mouse scuttering around my feet. My actions have led me to be jumpy. There is nothing i can do now, but bury. Slowly, my freezing muscles twitch and i begin to dig. They’ll find her here in the morning, but by then i will be gone. Every heap of dirt feels like i am moving a mountain with a single lift of a shovel. Every centimeter i dig, it is like digging my own path into hell. But all i can do now is bury.
Often I bury my personal chores in the yesterday pile. I realize that now and discover what a job it is. Procrastination is one of mine but I am getting better at doing stuff. I love the sports ad. “Just do it”.
They bury her in her pale dress that seems so insignificant, now that she’s beneath all of them; now that she rotting away, while they’re still breathing.
Bury. Ever wonder about the pronunciation? Should it rhyme with Ferry or Furry? I used to always think it was like Berry, but now I am wondering if that was right.
Bury yourself.
Bury yourself in passions.
Sink your bones and etch your skin until your daylight is anew.
Until your daylight is not the streaming light but the sparks that you seek, the sparks that you set
There is no fire starting in my heart. There is a fireplace, buried at the depths of my bones. It has snapshots of your hair for coal. And everyday it grows until the smoke seeps through my teeth and I’m afraid it’ll all slip out– like dust and ashes– all those remains of you
It’s always a damn shame when it happens. Lord knows I don’t mean to do it. I just get carried away sometimes. That’s the third one now. Maybe the next one’ll listen to what I tell her.
Sloane was here and i love chicken and mustashes and i like to not do homework and i dont like school and i am awesome and stuff yay i your so amazing good for you!! yay i like pandas and hope is my friend! :)
she let the lid fall. threw the dirt. beneath the dirt, the white man lay, paler than life. So pale. full of death, full of cold. she mourned the hot air escaped from him, the blood sunk from his cheeks, his eyes that had shone, that had looked to her with excitement, with lust. he’d not known, he had trusted her; that made it harder. no man had trusted her – no man had been submissive. that was the special quality that made him necessary; her freedom for his life. now she lived a monstrous freedom, a beast within. now she was at liberty. shine on, the eyes. please. but regret is cheap. regret is the fuel of the beast. like every other of her kind, she feeds grief with grief, fuels regret with rage; she tears the body to pieces aching to catch the soul. she cannot see the soul, it is not one of the gifts she is given; because she cannot see the soul, she feels pieces of her own slip away, through her lips, and she tries to catch them, transparent butterflies, casting her feeble net.
This word sounds like it means like it is a burden or some kind of animal.
l=etsbury the dog
bury thatpiece of corn
lets bury
I had to bury my dog when he died. He was very old.
hope is so awsome and i am in mr woolleys and i dont now how to spell his name!
I had to bury my dog when he died. He
bury bury fury fury. I’ve no idea today. Let’s just bury, what make us fury, and let all go away. I really dont know what to say, let’s just move away. For another day, any day.
I went to the cemetery on Friday in the rain.
The orange and yellow Kalanchoe flowers lit up the dark day.
I talked to you as I always do and you listened as you used to do.
Somehow it felt good to unburden myself. I placed pine cones on the headstone.
I just kept digging, deeper and deep into the ground. This was one thing no one could ever know about ever. The little box in my hand was hardly bigger then my fist, but it needed to be buried deep into the ground.
finding my buried thoughts. too deep. too many feelings. buried. the buried life in me ceases to arise. well, yes, the tombstone is in place. the death of you and i, it is spiteful. yes, honesty buried deep within,.
The old man buried his face inside the wooly scarf that was bundled around his neck. Lapsing quietly into a slumber, he rested beneath the canopy of trees that provided shade for his front porch.
I want to bury myself in you. You’re my joy. All I see in you is a light that i need to revel into my darkness. I want to bury myself in your arms and cry about how miserable i’ve been. Where have you been? I am buried under lies and deciet. I need you. Bury me in you.
“i buried my dreams of you and i, i buried my expections of how life wold be, i buried my soul and now i no longer live” (by why i ask myself why did you bury yourself for the world)
the thoughts I cannot say…bury them
the feelings I cannot have….bury them
the love I feel for you….bury it
the desires I have….bury them
This is a test about how to use this website. I wonder how I will be buried? Should I be cremated? Burial is an interesting thing. I have always been claust
How many times have I seen it. They just won’t take care. The only way they will get the message is when I bury my hand in their face with prejudice.
While sitting here in the lounge contemplating how to deal with a lazy, inconsiderate and unsociable housemate I wonder if I should just deal with the problem instead of burying it like I always do. I suppose it might make me feel better.
I am the layers of the Earth.
My surface so thin, what people perceive from a glance. And it can be peeled away so easily, if one would take the time to uncover what lies underneath.
The mantle the layer of all that makes me who I am; as well as what separates the surface from the core. So much that is constantly churning, festering, to burst at any moment. And the gravest of secrets buried deeper, to where no explorer could imagine to reach.
And the core, the spine, is the center to who I am. It is the gravity to who I am. And only I can reach it, only I can feel it, as it is the orbit, the linch pin, that I revolve around.
And only I
Can be the hand to destroy it.
Coffins. People being buried alive in the older times and graveyard shifts when they had bells next to the gravestones incase someone was alive. And scratch marks on the inside of the coffin when the bell wasnt there…
Suffocation.
Death.
graveyard, mother, I’ve never felt more pain. coffin, treasure, pirates, johnny depp, movies, acting, life, masks, the pain of seeing family being buried.
We had to bury all of them, all old associates, barely qualified as friends. But in the ground, they became more — turning in dirt and worms, tunneling into our brains, until we were forced to recognize them as kin. And so marinated, they rose again, our brethren, our wives and lovers. Our very future.
Let me not bury those memories for i don;t want to forget those. let me not bury the pain and happiness because they are already part of who I am. And let me not bury my love for you.
sometimes i fell bury. the word around seems so cold and grey that i looks like a tomb i hope i can see the sun someday
i bury my face in your neck. you smell strong of cologne, a cologne that reminds me of my father. the smell is too strong, and i pull away from you. my memories must always haunt me in this way, constantly depriving me of my secret hopes and dreams. my heart sinks in my chest as i make the decision of never to bury myself into your arms again, it would never do anything but harm.
nothing but blackness surrounds,
no air,
no sunlight,
no sign of life.
just decades of memories.
maybe centuries.
there below the sand.
is the legacy of pirates.
in a trunk.
never to be seen by sore eyes
again.
January. That month. It was the month we had to bury my mother. 48 years is not a long life, but it’s not particularly a short one. Her life was cut short by cancer, and God only knows what she could have accomplished if she wouldn’t have gotten sick.
Hello world. I love everything about this whole Internet thing. So why is it so damn important to stay on top? If we are not the best, let other be it, and enjoy their work, it may inspire more people than we think.
when his fist came crashing down on me, I knew this was the end. No matter how much evidence I had to bury him in, it all came down to the raw, physical power we each held; I never stood a chance. Oh, I tried to be sure, raised my arms in
To put someone of something under the soil. It is often done with the corpse or to conceal something.
I think that sometimes it’s okay to bury secrets. If telling the secret will cause a lot of hurt, and really achieve nothing more than alleviating the guilt of the secret holder, then best they live with the lie and let the other stay in peace.
When I was a little boy I used to bury my toys in the ground and tell my mother that I could not find them. I cannot understand now, why I would like doing something like that looking back now.
All i can think about is the moments that led me here. Standing with a shovel over the most disgraceful thing i have ever done. Blood streaks my hands and I know that endless scrubbing will never erase them. The rain pours down and lightning streaks the horizon. The cemetary is dark and the gate swings open and shut, like the ghost of the girl laying lifeless at my feet is coming back to avenge herself. I don’t know what to do. Run? Fight? All i know is that i have to bury this girl. All i have to do is bury. Her eyes are closed. Thank god those eyes are closed. When they were open she would stare into my own eyes. Stare so deep it was like she was scrutinizing my soul. Her tear streaked face is now palish green and muddy with splatters of blood staining her perfect completion, like ink on a newly printed page. There is nothing I can do to erase what i have done, just as there is nothing you can do when you print black ink onto a perfect white sheet of paper. I hear a noise and whip my head around to see a mouse scuttering around my feet. My actions have led me to be jumpy. There is nothing i can do now, but bury. Slowly, my freezing muscles twitch and i begin to dig. They’ll find her here in the morning, but by then i will be gone. Every heap of dirt feels like i am moving a mountain with a single lift of a shovel. Every centimeter i dig, it is like digging my own path into hell. But all i can do now is bury.
Often I bury my personal chores in the yesterday pile. I realize that now and discover what a job it is. Procrastination is one of mine but I am getting better at doing stuff. I love the sports ad. “Just do it”.
They bury her in the morning.
They bury her in her pale dress that seems so insignificant, now that she’s beneath all of them; now that she rotting away, while they’re still breathing.
Bury. Ever wonder about the pronunciation? Should it rhyme with Ferry or Furry? I used to always think it was like Berry, but now I am wondering if that was right.
I buried my feelings as far as I hid all the items he gave me in the back of my closet. The feelings just keeps creeping again in my head
Bury yourself.
Bury yourself in passions.
Sink your bones and etch your skin until your daylight is anew.
Until your daylight is not the streaming light but the sparks that you seek, the sparks that you set
There is no fire starting in my heart. There is a fireplace, buried at the depths of my bones. It has snapshots of your hair for coal. And everyday it grows until the smoke seeps through my teeth and I’m afraid it’ll all slip out– like dust and ashes– all those remains of you
It’s always a damn shame when it happens. Lord knows I don’t mean to do it. I just get carried away sometimes. That’s the third one now. Maybe the next one’ll listen to what I tell her.