It was difficult, in a way. The labour wasn’t particularly difficult, truly, James was happy to contribute, but it was why he was doing it that stung. It was hard to wrap his head around, sometimes. Why he was doing this. Who he was doing it for. He tried not to think about it.
I’m trying to contribute something to this site.. but given the fact that i only have sixty seconds it is really nerve wracking and i don’t expect to get a lot out of it except for another time challenge for my writing skills. I am not using any punctuation but anyways, i guess it’s not the end of the world when writing incoherent thoughts. Plus I can’t help but feeling the hunger taking over me during this challenge!
I’d like to contribute by saying, “Fuck that dude.” Who cares what he thinks? He can eat ass. and love it. Cause I don’t give a shit. Who does he think he is? Someone we coddle? Bullshit about? And then act chummy with when all we do is despise him?
I hate group projects. They think I know something about the life cycle of moths, think that it really matters to me, but really, I am not intelligent.
Group Partner 1, the one with the working beard and mustache, glares at me. Apparently, I am not working hard enough on my types summary of how long it takes a moth to weave a cocoon. I smile at him. I am so, so sorry, Awful Mustache Human. How terrible it is to have nothing to contribute to society. Trust me, I am fully aware that my life will only get worse.
She had never felt the need to contribute, well, anything. She was sick, after all. It was them that needed to contribute, not her. Contribute to her wellbeing, to the family wealth, to the world. She was not expected to contribute anything at all to the world. It hadn’t contributed anything to her, after all.
I will not contribute. I will not participate. I will not buy into you lies. Your hate. Your self loathing. You are a beautiful thing. I will give my whole life for you to see even a glimmer of what I see.
My palms begin to sweat as I stare at the basket being passed around the pews. It seems like everyone is dropping a five into the woven bowl. It gets closer and closer as I nervously glance around, making sure no one is looking. It is set into my lap. I pull my closed fist out of my pocket, and open my hand, dropping a measly nickel onto the pile. Passing it on to the person beside me, I pray that someday I will be able to contribute more.
The basket is passed around the pews as my palms start to sweat nervously. It gets closer and closer and it seems like everyone is dropping at least a five dollar bill into the woven bowl. Finally, someone sets it into my lap. I pull my hand out of my pocket and unclose it, dropping a measly nickel onto the pile. I wish I could contribute more, but it’s all I have.
The school disciplinarian paced about the corridor hoping to catch some vagabonds with no sense of duty. She looked around listlessly, her mind in a world of her own. She’d been in the same position since 34 years. Her contribution towards the school had been unparalleled, but her seniors felt otherwise. They only saw a fat angry woman beating up the kids.
John sighed as the box was passed to him, wishing he could keep his money just for the one week. As he hesitated in shaking out his pockets, he could feel the eyes of the entire community on him – he’d be expected to give up his hard-earned cash exactly like every other week.
He was almost tempted to simply walk out then and there, but there were too many people between him and the exit: he’d be forced back anyway.
Eventually, he pulled out his wallet and dumped the whole thing in there. He’d have to get a new one between now and the next week, but it would give him the temporary satisfaction of knowing Louis and Kelly would have to sort through the thing and return his bits and pieces.
The box passed on.
All souls hour – can I stay up that late and contribute to the strangeness that abounds, hardly the dreams pull me back into the pool – back under I go.
Every one in her life had to contribute to her sadness, problems, brokenness. Everyday they contributed lies. And more lies. Until it was a pile. Until she didn’t know what to do with it anymore.
Contribute to the cause! That’s what I’m here for! That’s my focus!
And what about me?
Help! Be a part!
The only part of this I want is you. You. All I want is you.
Contribute to the cause! That’s what I’m here for! That’s my focus!
And what about me?
Help! Be a part!
The only part of this I want is you. You. All I want is you.
Everyone wants to think they are doing good in the world. We all want to make a difference you know… maybe make someone smile or even make someone cry. We want to leave our foot print, make an impact, or so we say anyways.What is everyone doing out there? What are we really doing with our lives? Are you contributing and what does it even mean to contribute? Who really cares about the well being of society? Our elected officials? Oh please… we all live for ourselves and our selves are out biggest contribution. If you are the best you can be and worry and better yourself then you will better those around you. To contribute is to be true to who you are and then you will contribute without even trying.
“We all are the same. We all have a duty. We all must contribute to the greater cause.”
Annesha frowned and pressed her pencil in as she penned the words from the chalkboard. The letters had to be uniform; perfect. Otherwise she’d only have to repeat them again, and she’d done that too many times already.
I will render candles from the greed beneath your skin, pudding from the lust running through your veins, glue from the pride stuck deep inside your bones.
The pile in the center of the table was growing: two matches, a stretchy pony bead bracelet, a pair of sunglasses, a right-handed glove. But Josiah shook his head. “It’s not enough. The forest god will not be satisfied.”
“I know what to do,” said Frenchesca. She pulled a pocketknife from her cardigan.
“What is that for?” James asked, but they all knew the answer.
He wanted to contribute to the conversation, but it would cost him. If he opened his mouth, they would know instantly how little he knew of the subject at hand. Rejection on the spot.
I think everyone in the world needs to feel as though they contribute to society. That they have purpose in the world. Otherwise, depression sets in….we fee like we have no value. No self-worth in life. What’s the point? We all need to feel as though we contribute to something. As though we are needed in this world.
The way he’d contribute to the annual charity was naturally by writing a huge check, just as he had done the previous year and many years before that. Not that he really cared about charity nor helping other’s at all for that matter, but it was important he made a generous contribution.
The boy’s muttered contributions to the discussion were ignored by all the others. They knew he cared nothing about their survival, cared nothing about whether or not they would have food to eat next spring. He cared only for the book he carried with him that must be shielded at all costs.
I want to give something to this world. Something that I am proud of and that others will be proud to know me by. But what? What should I give? This is where I end. I don’t know what to give that hasn’t been given. I don’t know how I’ll matter.
People are always worrying over whether or not they’ll contribute something grand enough during their life time to be remembered after their dead. Who gives a shit? You’ll be dead.
“I don’t have anything to contribute, I just wanted–I’m here, aren’t I? Isn’t that enough? What else do you want from me? I don’t have anything left to give you people. I’ve given you everything. My life, my dreams, my hope–my soul. What more do you want from me? Your demands just keep growing and growing. Your greed knows no bounds.”
“It’s only a blood sample, Martin, it’s not the world.” The Medic said, snapping on a pair of rubber gloves. “It’s not our fault you fell in the vat. That was your own doing.”
“I wouldn’t have fallen into it if I wasn’t running away!”
“Oh? and I suppose your running away was our fault?” The doctor inquired. He nodded behind Martin’s head for the guards to shuffle closer.
“If you hadn’t caged me up in the first place, I wouldn’t have been running away.” Martin drew his knees up to his chest. Grey eyes turned black and a fanged smirk showed at the corner of his lips. “But if you think a blood sample will put this all to rights, go on ahead.”
The Medic eyed him for a moment, then set the needle down.
“Where are you going?” The doctor called after her, a warning tone in his voice.
“Contributing to society,” the Medic replied. “My volunteer hours start in four minutes and I’m not walking across this compound just because I’ve missed the moving walkway.”
Martin snickered. He reached for the needle and stabbed into his arm with none of the expected finesse of a trained medical professional. “Contribute,” he muttered. “That’s all you all are ever interested in, huh? What I have to give? Not what you can offer to me, eh. Here you go.” He handed over a messy, filled needle of dark-red-turning-green blood.
The Doctor swallowed.
“There’s my contribution,” Martin snarked. “Excuse me while I go and lock myself back up.”
I stepped up to the front of the line.
“Now it’s your turn to contribute,” they told me, as if I’d never added anything to their society. Then I walked through the door, into the darkness.
I left that place dazed and confused, short one arm and one leg.
we need to contribute more to the group because there isn’t enough productivity, i have some great ideas but my social anxiety is holding me back. also, my girlfriend wont contribute enough to our relationship so i might as well dump her since im gay anyway but i need that money from my parents to help pay rent
as broken as a clock that’s correct two times a day
since i lost you
counting down the hours, til i can’t feel no pain
is all i do
but your pollution machine is contributing to me
breaking down all over you
and the lies that you said, planting trees in my head
cuz you pollute enough for two
My friends hold an annual friendsgiving and expect these lavish dishes. They are all in secure jobs. I am constantly between them as a freelancer. I always happen to be on the upswing in january but by November, I’m empty–and so is my pantry–with the exception of these yams.
Group projects are the worst. I always am the one doing all the work while no one else contributes at all. Then all my effort leads to everyone getting A’s. All group projects ever do is increase my hatred of people general. I hope my treachers know that if I become a murderer one day, group projects are the reason why.
Dance, give it your all
for when you rise up in glory, they will subtly fall
fade away into the sunlight
bursts of light, aflame
maybe then you’ll earn your fame.
It was difficult, in a way. The labour wasn’t particularly difficult, truly, James was happy to contribute, but it was why he was doing it that stung. It was hard to wrap his head around, sometimes. Why he was doing this. Who he was doing it for. He tried not to think about it.
I’m trying to contribute something to this site.. but given the fact that i only have sixty seconds it is really nerve wracking and i don’t expect to get a lot out of it except for another time challenge for my writing skills. I am not using any punctuation but anyways, i guess it’s not the end of the world when writing incoherent thoughts. Plus I can’t help but feeling the hunger taking over me during this challenge!
to give back is what its all really about, how could i have been so oblivious, so selfish, so egoic. for to be a foe, i am not for it.
I’d like to contribute by saying, “Fuck that dude.” Who cares what he thinks? He can eat ass. and love it. Cause I don’t give a shit. Who does he think he is? Someone we coddle? Bullshit about? And then act chummy with when all we do is despise him?
I hate group projects. They think I know something about the life cycle of moths, think that it really matters to me, but really, I am not intelligent.
Group Partner 1, the one with the working beard and mustache, glares at me. Apparently, I am not working hard enough on my types summary of how long it takes a moth to weave a cocoon. I smile at him. I am so, so sorry, Awful Mustache Human. How terrible it is to have nothing to contribute to society. Trust me, I am fully aware that my life will only get worse.
She had never felt the need to contribute, well, anything. She was sick, after all. It was them that needed to contribute, not her. Contribute to her wellbeing, to the family wealth, to the world. She was not expected to contribute anything at all to the world. It hadn’t contributed anything to her, after all.
i hear there a great gym i would like to contribute to the gym on 78th rd and jamaca.
i hear there a great gym i would like to contribute to the gym on 78th rd and jamaca
Contribute to do good things mean have a positive vision which give a better life to this world.
“You didn’t contribute with anything!” The woman shouted at him, throwing the old tome at him. The boy cringed, whimpering under the table.
What can contribute our life? Friends? Family? Strangers maybe? I noticed that even strangers can contribute our lives.
My dad used to say that the point of life is to contribute something to the society.
I used to believe it. But not any more.
I want a life of my own. Free and happy.
I will not contribute. I will not participate. I will not buy into you lies. Your hate. Your self loathing. You are a beautiful thing. I will give my whole life for you to see even a glimmer of what I see.
My palms begin to sweat as I stare at the basket being passed around the pews. It seems like everyone is dropping a five into the woven bowl. It gets closer and closer as I nervously glance around, making sure no one is looking. It is set into my lap. I pull my closed fist out of my pocket, and open my hand, dropping a measly nickel onto the pile. Passing it on to the person beside me, I pray that someday I will be able to contribute more.
The basket is passed around the pews as my palms start to sweat nervously. It gets closer and closer and it seems like everyone is dropping at least a five dollar bill into the woven bowl. Finally, someone sets it into my lap. I pull my hand out of my pocket and unclose it, dropping a measly nickel onto the pile. I wish I could contribute more, but it’s all I have.
The school disciplinarian paced about the corridor hoping to catch some vagabonds with no sense of duty. She looked around listlessly, her mind in a world of her own. She’d been in the same position since 34 years. Her contribution towards the school had been unparalleled, but her seniors felt otherwise. They only saw a fat angry woman beating up the kids.
John sighed as the box was passed to him, wishing he could keep his money just for the one week. As he hesitated in shaking out his pockets, he could feel the eyes of the entire community on him – he’d be expected to give up his hard-earned cash exactly like every other week.
He was almost tempted to simply walk out then and there, but there were too many people between him and the exit: he’d be forced back anyway.
Eventually, he pulled out his wallet and dumped the whole thing in there. He’d have to get a new one between now and the next week, but it would give him the temporary satisfaction of knowing Louis and Kelly would have to sort through the thing and return his bits and pieces.
The box passed on.
All souls hour – can I stay up that late and contribute to the strangeness that abounds, hardly the dreams pull me back into the pool – back under I go.
Every one in her life had to contribute to her sadness, problems, brokenness. Everyday they contributed lies. And more lies. Until it was a pile. Until she didn’t know what to do with it anymore.
Add to,
Give to
Valuable addition
Make better by being involved
Be a part of those who contribute
Contribute to the cause! That’s what I’m here for! That’s my focus!
And what about me?
Help! Be a part!
The only part of this I want is you. You. All I want is you.
Contribute to the cause! That’s what I’m here for! That’s my focus!
And what about me?
Help! Be a part!
The only part of this I want is you. You. All I want is you.
Everyone wants to think they are doing good in the world. We all want to make a difference you know… maybe make someone smile or even make someone cry. We want to leave our foot print, make an impact, or so we say anyways.What is everyone doing out there? What are we really doing with our lives? Are you contributing and what does it even mean to contribute? Who really cares about the well being of society? Our elected officials? Oh please… we all live for ourselves and our selves are out biggest contribution. If you are the best you can be and worry and better yourself then you will better those around you. To contribute is to be true to who you are and then you will contribute without even trying.
“We all are the same. We all have a duty. We all must contribute to the greater cause.”
Annesha frowned and pressed her pencil in as she penned the words from the chalkboard. The letters had to be uniform; perfect. Otherwise she’d only have to repeat them again, and she’d done that too many times already.
Do not fall in love with me.
I will render candles from the greed beneath your skin, pudding from the lust running through your veins, glue from the pride stuck deep inside your bones.
I am a storm, a man-eater.
And I am hungry.
The pile in the center of the table was growing: two matches, a stretchy pony bead bracelet, a pair of sunglasses, a right-handed glove. But Josiah shook his head. “It’s not enough. The forest god will not be satisfied.”
“I know what to do,” said Frenchesca. She pulled a pocketknife from her cardigan.
“What is that for?” James asked, but they all knew the answer.
He wanted to contribute to the conversation, but it would cost him. If he opened his mouth, they would know instantly how little he knew of the subject at hand. Rejection on the spot.
I think everyone in the world needs to feel as though they contribute to society. That they have purpose in the world. Otherwise, depression sets in….we fee like we have no value. No self-worth in life. What’s the point? We all need to feel as though we contribute to something. As though we are needed in this world.
The way he’d contribute to the annual charity was naturally by writing a huge check, just as he had done the previous year and many years before that. Not that he really cared about charity nor helping other’s at all for that matter, but it was important he made a generous contribution.
The boy’s muttered contributions to the discussion were ignored by all the others. They knew he cared nothing about their survival, cared nothing about whether or not they would have food to eat next spring. He cared only for the book he carried with him that must be shielded at all costs.
I want to give something to this world. Something that I am proud of and that others will be proud to know me by. But what? What should I give? This is where I end. I don’t know what to give that hasn’t been given. I don’t know how I’ll matter.
“I wish you would actually contribute to the project!” snapped Arnold, his shoulders slumped as he leaned across the desk.
“I wish you actually had a good project for me to contribute to,” retorted Olivia. “Robotics? Again? I want something different, something exciting.”
“And robotics aren’t exciting why?”
Olivia raised an eyebrow. “There is only so far you can go with wires and metal. Me, I look at the big picture. I don’t build robots. I build worlds.”
People are always worrying over whether or not they’ll contribute something grand enough during their life time to be remembered after their dead. Who gives a shit? You’ll be dead.
“I don’t have anything to contribute, I just wanted–I’m here, aren’t I? Isn’t that enough? What else do you want from me? I don’t have anything left to give you people. I’ve given you everything. My life, my dreams, my hope–my soul. What more do you want from me? Your demands just keep growing and growing. Your greed knows no bounds.”
“It’s only a blood sample, Martin, it’s not the world.” The Medic said, snapping on a pair of rubber gloves. “It’s not our fault you fell in the vat. That was your own doing.”
“I wouldn’t have fallen into it if I wasn’t running away!”
“Oh? and I suppose your running away was our fault?” The doctor inquired. He nodded behind Martin’s head for the guards to shuffle closer.
“If you hadn’t caged me up in the first place, I wouldn’t have been running away.” Martin drew his knees up to his chest. Grey eyes turned black and a fanged smirk showed at the corner of his lips. “But if you think a blood sample will put this all to rights, go on ahead.”
The Medic eyed him for a moment, then set the needle down.
“Where are you going?” The doctor called after her, a warning tone in his voice.
“Contributing to society,” the Medic replied. “My volunteer hours start in four minutes and I’m not walking across this compound just because I’ve missed the moving walkway.”
Martin snickered. He reached for the needle and stabbed into his arm with none of the expected finesse of a trained medical professional. “Contribute,” he muttered. “That’s all you all are ever interested in, huh? What I have to give? Not what you can offer to me, eh. Here you go.” He handed over a messy, filled needle of dark-red-turning-green blood.
The Doctor swallowed.
“There’s my contribution,” Martin snarked. “Excuse me while I go and lock myself back up.”
I stepped up to the front of the line.
“Now it’s your turn to contribute,” they told me, as if I’d never added anything to their society. Then I walked through the door, into the darkness.
I left that place dazed and confused, short one arm and one leg.
we need to contribute more to the group because there isn’t enough productivity, i have some great ideas but my social anxiety is holding me back. also, my girlfriend wont contribute enough to our relationship so i might as well dump her since im gay anyway but i need that money from my parents to help pay rent
as broken as a clock that’s correct two times a day
since i lost you
counting down the hours, til i can’t feel no pain
is all i do
but your pollution machine is contributing to me
breaking down all over you
and the lies that you said, planting trees in my head
cuz you pollute enough for two
I only had yams in my pantry.
My friends hold an annual friendsgiving and expect these lavish dishes. They are all in secure jobs. I am constantly between them as a freelancer. I always happen to be on the upswing in january but by November, I’m empty–and so is my pantry–with the exception of these yams.
Group projects are the worst. I always am the one doing all the work while no one else contributes at all. Then all my effort leads to everyone getting A’s. All group projects ever do is increase my hatred of people general. I hope my treachers know that if I become a murderer one day, group projects are the reason why.
Dance, give it your all
for when you rise up in glory, they will subtly fall
fade away into the sunlight
bursts of light, aflame
maybe then you’ll earn your fame.