It was a crisp winter morning when she ran away. The sky had that white cast to it and there were no cars on the road. The silence was eerie and her adventure was just beginning.
He was burnt to a crisp. All that time he’d spent in the sun had finally caught up with him. I’d told him before, he was going to get bad sunburn if he didn’t put any lotion on, but did he listen to me? No. Of course he didn’t, because he never does. He’s my brother, why would he listen to me?
crunch crisp things that you feel and touch that crumble and flake and make noises and i dont even know but crisp is like being sharp and yet gentle and knowing and feeling and being straightforward and straight up and upright and worthy.
The apple was cool on my lips, and it smelled like the fall mornings of my past. My family – whole then, complete with mother, father, sister – would go at the crack of dawn. We would load up with our bamboo baskets and our seven-foot-tall poles, and we would tramp in the morning dew and bring bags and baskets of apples home. And for weeks afterward, we would eat – apples, apple crisp, apple pie, and all else.
Crisp is the word of this winter day. So cold at this hour and the world is one of icy sidewalks, frosty lawns, icy cars. Scarves, gloves, hats and jackets required for early morning walks. The air, however is clean and clear. The eastern hills stand purple and etched into the blue. Trees and sky sparkle with the crispness of clarity.
The sweet cherry pie melted on her tongue as she spooned the crisp crust into her mouth. It was warm and flaky, just the way she had remembered, and as she ate the whole pie by herself, she almost felt happy.
Until she finished, left with the empty tin foil pie plate, save for a few crumbs and scraps of cherry filling.
Look what you’ve done, it told her. Her eyes filled with the salty tears, as there was no use silencing the voice.
Get rid of it, it hissed. She silently moved her boney body to the bathroom.
She sat in the bathroom for hours, staring at the regurgitated cherry pie floating in the toilet bowl.
The bread was crisp, the way that I love it. There is nothing better than eating some toast bread an honey, and a cup or Milo tea to start the day off. it is truly a blessing.
A carpet of leaves
dead leaves
crunching under my boots
A ceiling of sky
dead sky
poking through the bare branches
of the stark trees
A world of silence
dead silence
everything is dead
except me.
crisp
hello
fine
good
better
journalist
India
world
life
commando
duration
news
funny
honey
sunny
tan
ban
scan
man
woman
child
number
digits
words
simple
now
what
kind
simple
yellow
red
blue
green
black
brown
rainbow
boy
girl
mother
father
sister
brother
uncle
aunt
husband
wife
children
grandchild
grandmother
grandfather
son
daughter
niece
nephew
harassment
crisp is cotton sheets fresh out of the washing machine. it is a clear blue sky and cold day. crisp is a chip. crisp is like lisp but with cr. crispy cremes, crispy people sometimes.
Only you, i see only you with my eyes. Your beautiful smile, your angelic eyes, your cute nose, maybe weird but what i see is only you. Yes, you, only you.
autumn. gel in your hair. the feel of your hand in mine when i’d slide it beneath yours. apples. apples, and more apples. flaky bread. how my heart feels when i wake of you in the darkness of the night.
Crisp. Like a cookie. Like a potato chip. Crispses. She stepped on the crisp leaves purposefully as walked down the street in the late afternoon. She intended to circle the block once and return home. What is the point of walking if it is never to go anywhere…
They stepped as lightly as they could through the snow, but it was slow going. The air, as it should be in the middle of winter, was crisp and made their breathing hard. Air burned them with the cold…
Your jet black hair looks charred to a crisp
I want to swim in your ocean-blue eyes
And I want your guitar hands to hold me like you hold her
Be a fool for me
Sing me Coldplay songs and stroke me to sleep.
But just utter two words
Or even look up
Because I’m here and you’re not.
the air is crisp. the sky is clear. outlines of the mountains are so crisp you could just barely doubt that they’d been etched over with a Sharpe marker.
Like an apple– really AWESOME apples are crisp and yuuuummmm! Chips are also crispy and the word sounds like the sound and aren’t chips actually called crisps in England?? yes?
A crispy chicken sandwich
rested on the bun on my plate.
I wondered if it would
slide down my throat
like grease,
slipping down into my
esophagus,
instead of scratching the epithelium,
cutting my cells in two
like the last time I had chips.
I wondered when
I will be able to talk again.
The air was crisp, sort of like the potato chips I had just popped four minutes ago. There was nothing more satisfying than the crunch that happened when I flipped one into my mouth and chomped down. Salty sweet carbs… Well, except for the bittersweetness of my soon-to-be revenge.
one fine morning a fine crisp apple went for a walk, he came upon to walking hookers. they ask the tiny apple would he like some caramel with his morning walk. he said maybe later and kept on foot. with the confidence of this incident he quickly walked into the new coffee shop where he knew the new cute red apple he had been eyeing would working today.
crisp sunshine steaming through the window as a goblin woke from his late night one night stand, he doesn’t remember her face but she looked a lot like his grandma Francis, he trys to recall the last 12 hours but all he can see is purple. which is strange because everyone knows the pickle people banned the color purple last week from the giant list of boobies.
The morning air was crisp as it hit my nose. My cheeks flushed pink as the flakes of snow sprinkled lightly over them. I wondered how anyone could hate this time of year. So crisp. So crisp. So crisp. I couldn’t help but smile at the thought of it. Shivers went down my spine. Whether it was because of the cold air or my joy, I’m not sure.
I like crisp french fries. Not them stupid potatoey thick cut steak fries but crispy strips of oily potato. With pepper ketchup. About 4 packets per tablespoon I would say.
It was over, the African storm. I sucked the clean, clear air into my lungs, rain washed. Thunder still rippled and slid through koppies and licks of lightening flicked through the heavens. Then silence and the sun broke through dark clouds. Quiet touched the land again.
my mind is crisp
fresh and young
ready to spurt out any and all ideas
that ephemerally cross my mind
only to slip if i don’t scribe it in some artistic form
I must savor my crisp mind
for it won’t be so for long
and as my mind fades
i’m sure my thoughts will still ring true
i may just not be able to express them with such clarity
but maybe
it just may be the opposite.
the crisp winter winds
chill me to the bone
i used to detest this feeling
wanting to run from it
but now
there is a sort of comfort in it
i have accepted this chill
the changing of the seasons
after a lifetime of leaving
i embrace this chill
I am finally home
As she walked outside, she inhaled the crisp air that warned winter was coming
While she took pleasure in it now, she would soon to dread its cold, invigorating shock
And she would be hiding under those crisp, clean blankets
At every chance she got during those cold winter months.
the best breakfast my mom ever made me was a bowl of cookie crisp. it’s not that she is negligent mother, and never made meals, it’s not that at all. she always argued it was too sugary and it would rot my pretty smile until one day she gave in, and bought a box. thanks, mom, i’ll always remember.
It was a crisp winter morning when she ran away. The sky had that white cast to it and there were no cars on the road. The silence was eerie and her adventure was just beginning.
He was burnt to a crisp. All that time he’d spent in the sun had finally caught up with him. I’d told him before, he was going to get bad sunburn if he didn’t put any lotion on, but did he listen to me? No. Of course he didn’t, because he never does. He’s my brother, why would he listen to me?
crunch crisp things that you feel and touch that crumble and flake and make noises and i dont even know but crisp is like being sharp and yet gentle and knowing and feeling and being straightforward and straight up and upright and worthy.
The apple was cool on my lips, and it smelled like the fall mornings of my past. My family – whole then, complete with mother, father, sister – would go at the crack of dawn. We would load up with our bamboo baskets and our seven-foot-tall poles, and we would tramp in the morning dew and bring bags and baskets of apples home. And for weeks afterward, we would eat – apples, apple crisp, apple pie, and all else.
Crisp is the word of this winter day. So cold at this hour and the world is one of icy sidewalks, frosty lawns, icy cars. Scarves, gloves, hats and jackets required for early morning walks. The air, however is clean and clear. The eastern hills stand purple and etched into the blue. Trees and sky sparkle with the crispness of clarity.
The sweet cherry pie melted on her tongue as she spooned the crisp crust into her mouth. It was warm and flaky, just the way she had remembered, and as she ate the whole pie by herself, she almost felt happy.
Until she finished, left with the empty tin foil pie plate, save for a few crumbs and scraps of cherry filling.
Look what you’ve done, it told her. Her eyes filled with the salty tears, as there was no use silencing the voice.
Get rid of it, it hissed. She silently moved her boney body to the bathroom.
She sat in the bathroom for hours, staring at the regurgitated cherry pie floating in the toilet bowl.
lettuces
salad
vegetarian
vegan
sister
siblings
abuse
pain
torturer
neglect
The bread was crisp, the way that I love it. There is nothing better than eating some toast bread an honey, and a cup or Milo tea to start the day off. it is truly a blessing.
A carpet of leaves
dead leaves
crunching under my boots
A ceiling of sky
dead sky
poking through the bare branches
of the stark trees
A world of silence
dead silence
everything is dead
except me.
Chips and dips yum yum
crisp
hello
fine
good
better
journalist
India
world
life
commando
duration
news
funny
honey
sunny
tan
ban
scan
man
woman
child
number
digits
words
simple
now
what
kind
simple
yellow
red
blue
green
black
brown
rainbow
boy
girl
mother
father
sister
brother
uncle
aunt
husband
wife
children
grandchild
grandmother
grandfather
son
daughter
niece
nephew
harassment
crisp is cotton sheets fresh out of the washing machine. it is a clear blue sky and cold day. crisp is a chip. crisp is like lisp but with cr. crispy cremes, crispy people sometimes.
Only you, i see only you with my eyes. Your beautiful smile, your angelic eyes, your cute nose, maybe weird but what i see is only you. Yes, you, only you.
autumn. gel in your hair. the feel of your hand in mine when i’d slide it beneath yours. apples. apples, and more apples. flaky bread. how my heart feels when i wake of you in the darkness of the night.
When you eat biscuits you feel their taste and hear their crisp. It’s fantastic. sometimes even a slight sound can make you hungry.
fresh, satisfying, rich, smelling like salt air breezes
Seasoning chips of lacing salts, binded agents to satisfy those who are sucked in an addiction to sate their sick and disgusting eating habits.
Crisp. Like a cookie. Like a potato chip. Crispses. She stepped on the crisp leaves purposefully as walked down the street in the late afternoon. She intended to circle the block once and return home. What is the point of walking if it is never to go anywhere…
“It’s a long way down,” he though to himself.
The crisp water swayed below him.
A water droplet fell from his cheek.
Then he followed it.
They stepped as lightly as they could through the snow, but it was slow going. The air, as it should be in the middle of winter, was crisp and made their breathing hard. Air burned them with the cold…
The word tasted sweet on her toungue. C-R-I-S-P. Like lettuce. Like an apple. Like something that was worth something. Something to someone.
Your jet black hair looks charred to a crisp
I want to swim in your ocean-blue eyes
And I want your guitar hands to hold me like you hold her
Be a fool for me
Sing me Coldplay songs and stroke me to sleep.
But just utter two words
Or even look up
Because I’m here and you’re not.
the air is crisp. the sky is clear. outlines of the mountains are so crisp you could just barely doubt that they’d been etched over with a Sharpe marker.
Like an apple– really AWESOME apples are crisp and yuuuummmm! Chips are also crispy and the word sounds like the sound and aren’t chips actually called crisps in England?? yes?
A crispy chicken sandwich
rested on the bun on my plate.
I wondered if it would
slide down my throat
like grease,
slipping down into my
esophagus,
instead of scratching the epithelium,
cutting my cells in two
like the last time I had chips.
I wondered when
I will be able to talk again.
The air was crisp, sort of like the potato chips I had just popped four minutes ago. There was nothing more satisfying than the crunch that happened when I flipped one into my mouth and chomped down. Salty sweet carbs… Well, except for the bittersweetness of my soon-to-be revenge.
one fine morning a fine crisp apple went for a walk, he came upon to walking hookers. they ask the tiny apple would he like some caramel with his morning walk. he said maybe later and kept on foot. with the confidence of this incident he quickly walked into the new coffee shop where he knew the new cute red apple he had been eyeing would working today.
crisp sunshine steaming through the window as a goblin woke from his late night one night stand, he doesn’t remember her face but she looked a lot like his grandma Francis, he trys to recall the last 12 hours but all he can see is purple. which is strange because everyone knows the pickle people banned the color purple last week from the giant list of boobies.
The morning air was crisp as it hit my nose. My cheeks flushed pink as the flakes of snow sprinkled lightly over them. I wondered how anyone could hate this time of year. So crisp. So crisp. So crisp. I couldn’t help but smile at the thought of it. Shivers went down my spine. Whether it was because of the cold air or my joy, I’m not sure.
The crisp apple was just enough to get her going again. Soon she’d be seeking out green pears and romaine and all kinds of crisp stuff.
I like crisp french fries. Not them stupid potatoey thick cut steak fries but crispy strips of oily potato. With pepper ketchup. About 4 packets per tablespoon I would say.
It was over, the African storm. I sucked the clean, clear air into my lungs, rain washed. Thunder still rippled and slid through koppies and licks of lightening flicked through the heavens. Then silence and the sun broke through dark clouds. Quiet touched the land again.
chips,white shirt,cookies.neat and clean.carrots food line not to cross.. clear lines. defined.eyeliner.
leaves
fall
crunchy
chips
flavorful
autumn
crispy pata
food
pringles
fresh
breath of fresh air
crispy
new
uplifting
clean start
smell
breath in
inhale
my mind is crisp
fresh and young
ready to spurt out any and all ideas
that ephemerally cross my mind
only to slip if i don’t scribe it in some artistic form
I must savor my crisp mind
for it won’t be so for long
and as my mind fades
i’m sure my thoughts will still ring true
i may just not be able to express them with such clarity
but maybe
it just may be the opposite.
the crisp winter winds
chill me to the bone
i used to detest this feeling
wanting to run from it
but now
there is a sort of comfort in it
i have accepted this chill
the changing of the seasons
after a lifetime of leaving
i embrace this chill
I am finally home
As she walked outside, she inhaled the crisp air that warned winter was coming
While she took pleasure in it now, she would soon to dread its cold, invigorating shock
And she would be hiding under those crisp, clean blankets
At every chance she got during those cold winter months.
The crisp, cold air brushing against your warm arms.
Crisp cold air weaving itself through your hair.
Wonderful, crisp winter air.
the best breakfast my mom ever made me was a bowl of cookie crisp. it’s not that she is negligent mother, and never made meals, it’s not that at all. she always argued it was too sugary and it would rot my pretty smile until one day she gave in, and bought a box. thanks, mom, i’ll always remember.
A leaf, crunched triumphantly beneath my shoe.
Icy-topped snow, punched through haplessly by my winter boots.
a cookie, it’s insides the opposite: gushing and melty.