She sat at the desk typing. She was writing about the word “desk” but couldn’t figure how to enter that word into her story, for she was writing about a mermaid living in the ocean and the girl was 99% sure that there were no desks in the ocean….unless, of course you swim to the titanic…
My desk is from IKEA. It has a clear surface, adorned with the word “love” in various languages and typefaces. The last time you could actually see any of these, however, was three summers ago, before I got into university and it became the home of endless books and papers.
She pushed everything off the desk and lay there, legs leisurely stretching up and whispered just enough to get my male organ’s.
“Now I’m your wife and it time you tended to my body…”
These words are boring and now I am becoming boring, these really are my thoughts l, sadly enough. Desks suck, I hate being at them, I associate them with school, none of this makes me feel better.
Astor sat in his spot on Tobias’s desk. Tobias didn’t look up; he was deep into whatever numbers he was crunching or documents he was proofing or whatever the hell it was the headmaster of a school for mythical creatures did all day. Astor thought to himself, I’ll be a good friend. I’ll sit here nice and quietly and play with my Gameboy (with the volume turned down) and I won’t say anything.
The next radiant thought that sparked through his mind, of course, was Today’s as good a day as any for a surprise I Love You party.
And without you, I sit at my desk as the sun goes down, scribbling away with the colors of a faded imagination. I never knew what to say to your face, but words on paper never failed until tonight, when all I can do is furiously tear at your picture with am unwilling pen and a determined brow.
im sitting at my desk right now haha. my desk is not the neatest thing in my house. as a matter of fact… it’s pretty messy compared to other things i own. this desk and i share many memories. i have cried here, did homework, and other things.
When he’s gone, sometimes I’ll go and sit at Daddy’s desk.
It’s all business-like and big and shiny mahogany wood. It used to make me feel like a big girl.
Now it reminds me that he always spent more time in here than he did with his family.
And I almost hate myself for not crying at his funeral. And then I realize that never seeing him again isn’t that different than the way it was before.
My desk is a few seats away from John, but it was dirty, so i cleaned it. i had pen doodles all on it, so i had to waist my sanitizer on the dirty thing. but i was all for him(john)
My desk is where I sit. It is not excellent. It is far too short for me to rest my arms on. It is painted white, and this paint is flaking to reveal a horrible pink colour. But, even though it is just a board that hangs limply from a nail in the wall, it does serve it’s function… somewhat.
I sit at my desk
just like everybody else
i curl up into a ball upon my chair
and put together little dots of different values
and call it pointillism
i finish covering the paper with dots
and call it a landscape
i need to create
shall i call myself an artist?
something that you can place objects upon such as books and computers, usually have chairs next to them.
can be made of wood, metal. most commonly used is wood.
its a desk
I love my desk. It’s awesome. It fits everything like my binder and my computer. Oh my god my computer. I love it. I go on it every day and it’s simply the best. I can never get enough of internet. Im on it right now. I also love tumblr. Speaking of things i like, chocolate is pretty sweet.
The cool black top of the desk caressed my face. I stared out the window, barely aware of my science teacher’s lesson. I focus on the desk. The desk that catches my tears, hugs me when I need it, and feeds my ideas. Desk, desk, desk.
A desk is where forgeries are made. Forgeries of words. A blank pallet where I construct all the things that don’t accurately reflect anything, but are my contrivance. My lie. My words. Just like these. Blank metaphors. Empty words. Hallow. And what do people think when they read such words? They know it’s contrived. There’s a brief smirk of recognition, maybe of empathy, but they know it’s a lie. They praise it anyway. They write similar things themselves on their false desks.
I’m sitting at my desk, like I have for millions of hours in the past few years. It’s where I got the phonecall that Keenan had died. It’s where I was when I found out that Gabe had died. It’s where I was when I nearly hung myself (there are cuts in the wood from the notes I wrote). It’s where I was when you spat at me and went your own way. But I’m over all of those things. I dealt with them and moved on, because that’s what adults do. I might be a bastard, but at least I didn’t write a book about my ex from a year ago while condemning mourning people. I might be a bastard, but at least I admit it.
I love this guy named Richard Hightower. I have seen him in two different places and he has even talked to one of my friends but I dont think he even notices me. I love him. Kay~
This black scratched desk, so old and used up. Used to be so beautiful and now…..just don’t know what to do with it anymore. I wish it could be as shiny and beautiful as it used to be, but I guess we all have our time. Our golden days are over one day.
i sit at a desk and i do my work. i don’t want to do work right now but my desk is making me work. should i get up or should i stay? do i really have to do work right now? i would rather be sitting at a table eating or sitting at a counter making dinner.
I was sitting at a desk in the topfloor of our apartment, that is, level 47. It was about midday when I was mucnching on a sandwhich. Suddenly it flew from my fingers and i looked to see where iit had gone. A vulture slammed into the window.
i sat there at my desk trying to words to the paper, but i was beginning to forget why all of this drama even mattered. People make the greatness of their day. sit there in front of your tv, out and about hiking, sit there in front of your television. watch your pretty little worthless day float on by.
I sit at this desk ignoring the work I’m supposed to be and just thinking about how the momentum of life is swinging out of control. I’m nothing but Ignatius trapped to a cruel mistress of fickle Fortuna. I’m digging my heels in nothing but sand because I don’t want this world to be perpetual. I don’t want this world to keep swinging. I want my “so it goes”. I want my frozen moment of being but a bug in amber. I want to keep all as it is. Time kills everything. I don’t want this to die. To reach your peak at an age so young as mine begs what there is left for me to actually do, to look forward to. Time stop your clocks. I want eternity of this moment for my one hundred years.
I sit happily at a desk. It is mine, but there are many like it. Perhaps you also sit at a desk. If so, why not sit at mine? Because it is mine, as I said.
The desk was cleared with nothing left on it. Its cracked wood, all splintery and wet, sat there without the weight of the books of its past no longer felt. Ella brushed her hand across it, the dust flying in the sunlight. She couldn’t help but smile a sad sort of smile as she watched the men move it to the curb.
a pile of papers on my desk that haven’t been touched. A big mug of coffee, as dark as night. I want to go to sleep; curl up under my blanket and die. Damn these exams!
My desk is a mess. Not even a beautiful mess, just piles of useful crap that makes me want to scream from it’s boringness. But I know if anything disappears, I’ll need it a minute later. I want one of those cool desks, that have wonderful gorgeous messes that make a statement. But nothing in my life can really do that…
orange banana school i love monkeys dogs are scary bed sleep school ew tomorrow bess bessy jessie the yodeling cowgirl old bess big black behemout came speeding down the track cheat latin hard
i was making the deal of the century at the desk of my former employer. He hired me back and was willing to give me 50% more than I was previously earning.
It’s holding everything important. Stacks of papers that are bills, pictures of the people who mean most to you and tiny papers scribbled with quotes that inspire you to create all on this underrated piece of bedroom furniture.
The desk creaked underneath her as she put her weight on an elbow. The typewriter, on the other hand, remained silent. Ideas flickered through her head, but none of them fit together; she had no idea where to start.
She sat at the desk typing. She was writing about the word “desk” but couldn’t figure how to enter that word into her story, for she was writing about a mermaid living in the ocean and the girl was 99% sure that there were no desks in the ocean….unless, of course you swim to the titanic…
My desk is from IKEA. It has a clear surface, adorned with the word “love” in various languages and typefaces. The last time you could actually see any of these, however, was three summers ago, before I got into university and it became the home of endless books and papers.
Im in need of desk…somewhere to work and solve problems. So many unsolved problems…many unsolvable at this point.
She pushed everything off the desk and lay there, legs leisurely stretching up and whispered just enough to get my male organ’s.
“Now I’m your wife and it time you tended to my body…”
These words are boring and now I am becoming boring, these really are my thoughts l, sadly enough. Desks suck, I hate being at them, I associate them with school, none of this makes me feel better.
Astor sat in his spot on Tobias’s desk. Tobias didn’t look up; he was deep into whatever numbers he was crunching or documents he was proofing or whatever the hell it was the headmaster of a school for mythical creatures did all day. Astor thought to himself, I’ll be a good friend. I’ll sit here nice and quietly and play with my Gameboy (with the volume turned down) and I won’t say anything.
The next radiant thought that sparked through his mind, of course, was Today’s as good a day as any for a surprise I Love You party.
im sitting at
Writing things at my desk seems to make me calm, get out all of my thoughts, and help me express my feelings in ways I couldn’t form verbally.
And without you, I sit at my desk as the sun goes down, scribbling away with the colors of a faded imagination. I never knew what to say to your face, but words on paper never failed until tonight, when all I can do is furiously tear at your picture with am unwilling pen and a determined brow.
I sit at my desk, triumphant. The printer has finished its work, and so have I. I stand. I dance. I sit. I procrastinate.
im sitting at my desk right now haha. my desk is not the neatest thing in my house. as a matter of fact… it’s pretty messy compared to other things i own. this desk and i share many memories. i have cried here, did homework, and other things.
When he’s gone, sometimes I’ll go and sit at Daddy’s desk.
It’s all business-like and big and shiny mahogany wood. It used to make me feel like a big girl.
Now it reminds me that he always spent more time in here than he did with his family.
And I almost hate myself for not crying at his funeral. And then I realize that never seeing him again isn’t that different than the way it was before.
My desk is a few seats away from John, but it was dirty, so i cleaned it. i had pen doodles all on it, so i had to waist my sanitizer on the dirty thing. but i was all for him(john)
My desk is where I sit. It is not excellent. It is far too short for me to rest my arms on. It is painted white, and this paint is flaking to reveal a horrible pink colour. But, even though it is just a board that hangs limply from a nail in the wall, it does serve it’s function… somewhat.
I sit at my desk
just like everybody else
i curl up into a ball upon my chair
and put together little dots of different values
and call it pointillism
i finish covering the paper with dots
and call it a landscape
i need to create
shall i call myself an artist?
something that you can place objects upon such as books and computers, usually have chairs next to them.
can be made of wood, metal. most commonly used is wood.
its a desk
i was at my desk when john came over and kissed me on the cheek! it was amazing!! he is soo Cute!! I wish that happened in real life and not a dream.
I love my desk. It’s awesome. It fits everything like my binder and my computer. Oh my god my computer. I love it. I go on it every day and it’s simply the best. I can never get enough of internet. Im on it right now. I also love tumblr. Speaking of things i like, chocolate is pretty sweet.
The cool black top of the desk caressed my face. I stared out the window, barely aware of my science teacher’s lesson. I focus on the desk. The desk that catches my tears, hugs me when I need it, and feeds my ideas. Desk, desk, desk.
A desk is where forgeries are made. Forgeries of words. A blank pallet where I construct all the things that don’t accurately reflect anything, but are my contrivance. My lie. My words. Just like these. Blank metaphors. Empty words. Hallow. And what do people think when they read such words? They know it’s contrived. There’s a brief smirk of recognition, maybe of empathy, but they know it’s a lie. They praise it anyway. They write similar things themselves on their false desks.
I’m sitting at my desk, like I have for millions of hours in the past few years. It’s where I got the phonecall that Keenan had died. It’s where I was when I found out that Gabe had died. It’s where I was when I nearly hung myself (there are cuts in the wood from the notes I wrote). It’s where I was when you spat at me and went your own way. But I’m over all of those things. I dealt with them and moved on, because that’s what adults do. I might be a bastard, but at least I didn’t write a book about my ex from a year ago while condemning mourning people. I might be a bastard, but at least I admit it.
I love this guy named Richard Hightower. I have seen him in two different places and he has even talked to one of my friends but I dont think he even notices me. I love him. Kay~
This black scratched desk, so old and used up. Used to be so beautiful and now…..just don’t know what to do with it anymore. I wish it could be as shiny and beautiful as it used to be, but I guess we all have our time. Our golden days are over one day.
computer , mouse, keyboard , papers, phone, bills , pens , pencils, notes, candy , tape, stapler,
a place where one does shit. ranging from sex to doing school work; a source of intelligence and fun, many things occur here simultaneously.
i sit at a desk and i do my work. i don’t want to do work right now but my desk is making me work. should i get up or should i stay? do i really have to do work right now? i would rather be sitting at a table eating or sitting at a counter making dinner.
how do i describe the ultimate desk. it needs too be flat and 60 s is not enough when you type as slow as me. anyway, it needs to be made of wood
just papers
that fly around
the room
like winged poetry.
I was sitting at a desk in the topfloor of our apartment, that is, level 47. It was about midday when I was mucnching on a sandwhich. Suddenly it flew from my fingers and i looked to see where iit had gone. A vulture slammed into the window.
i sat there at my desk trying to words to the paper, but i was beginning to forget why all of this drama even mattered. People make the greatness of their day. sit there in front of your tv, out and about hiking, sit there in front of your television. watch your pretty little worthless day float on by.
I sit at this desk ignoring the work I’m supposed to be and just thinking about how the momentum of life is swinging out of control. I’m nothing but Ignatius trapped to a cruel mistress of fickle Fortuna. I’m digging my heels in nothing but sand because I don’t want this world to be perpetual. I don’t want this world to keep swinging. I want my “so it goes”. I want my frozen moment of being but a bug in amber. I want to keep all as it is. Time kills everything. I don’t want this to die. To reach your peak at an age so young as mine begs what there is left for me to actually do, to look forward to. Time stop your clocks. I want eternity of this moment for my one hundred years.
I sit happily at a desk. It is mine, but there are many like it. Perhaps you also sit at a desk. If so, why not sit at mine? Because it is mine, as I said.
The desk was cleared with nothing left on it. Its cracked wood, all splintery and wet, sat there without the weight of the books of its past no longer felt. Ella brushed her hand across it, the dust flying in the sunlight. She couldn’t help but smile a sad sort of smile as she watched the men move it to the curb.
a pile of papers on my desk that haven’t been touched. A big mug of coffee, as dark as night. I want to go to sleep; curl up under my blanket and die. Damn these exams!
I carve your name into the wooden desk; it’s there for good, it’s permanent. Unlike you.
My desk is a mess. Not even a beautiful mess, just piles of useful crap that makes me want to scream from it’s boringness. But I know if anything disappears, I’ll need it a minute later. I want one of those cool desks, that have wonderful gorgeous messes that make a statement. But nothing in my life can really do that…
orange banana school i love monkeys dogs are scary bed sleep school ew tomorrow bess bessy jessie the yodeling cowgirl old bess big black behemout came speeding down the track cheat latin hard
Shhh, she knew I knew.
i was making the deal of the century at the desk of my former employer. He hired me back and was willing to give me 50% more than I was previously earning.
It’s holding everything important. Stacks of papers that are bills, pictures of the people who mean most to you and tiny papers scribbled with quotes that inspire you to create all on this underrated piece of bedroom furniture.
The desk creaked underneath her as she put her weight on an elbow. The typewriter, on the other hand, remained silent. Ideas flickered through her head, but none of them fit together; she had no idea where to start.