And everyday it is the same thing, over and over until fingers begin to lose their motility, and nails grow misshapen, yellow and uneven. Until knuckles are twisted and gnarled and much too dry.
It was a lovely desk. A sturdy one, solid and best of all, it was white in color. “Perfect!” she thought and gleefully took out her credit card. She can already imagine the wonderful things she would write as she worked on the desk. Somehow, her creativity juices started flowing as soon as she ran her hands across the smooth white surface. Smiling, her search for the perfect desk has come to an end.
square, brown, wooden, comfortable. makes me think back to my student life. this is where i cultivated my thoughts. posters. motivation. inspiration. blockage. brick wall. disconnection. inner connection. academics. books. pens. phone. cubicle. work. play. exploration. plastic. table but different.
Sitting alone, watching the clock. Tick, tick, tick. The sound echoes, the sweat drips. Paper still empty. The pen sits tight in the hand, shaking. This is the end. BELL!
it’s there on my desk: pale as moonlight, grey as dust,
a dream rests, crushed by idleness.
i lay in front of it,
catching the slow drip of blood that falls from the edge
and when someone’ll see us they will say here rests her dreams
The things that sit on my desk are varied. They hold great meaning, and span many years of my life. The things that sit on my desk will collect dust, age, and fade, just as everything else in the life of one who thinks they will live forever.
The homework that remains unfinished. Shelter in case of a nuclear lockdown. That’s all I can think of for the word ‘desk.’ Honestly, after all these years I don’t even consider it that notable anymore. Maybe a desk is just a desk. And that’s all I’ve got.
i once crapped on a desk. although it was really sad because i realized i was crapping on a woman’s breasts, but then i was like “hey this is awesome” and we did it. that was a good desk-y experience. i like desks more now. :)
Desks are interesting. You see, my desk is an art desk, and is currently sitting as an incline plane. This makes it a bit difficult, but then again, easier for me to do homework. My books are always sliding off of the surface when I’m trying to work on my Physics or Calculus. It’s really quite bothersome, but I have become used to it.
Are my legs sticking out again? How long is this class going to go till? Can I leave my desk yet? Whatever the bell just went. See you again next block.
Everytime I sit at my desk and hope to write something eloquent or profound or just something lucid with a quasi-legitimate storyline and a character that one can buy into, I end up sounding like a Don Draper wannabe.
I miss my desk at my old work place so much. I regret from time to time for wasting my time at my last job and taking the job for granted. Oh, desk, how I miss you. I hope we meet again.
I don’t want to be a desk monkey. I don’t want to be a desk potato. I don’t want to be a desk and seat for a dominatrix. I really should sit at my desk. I would be more productive.
Here I am on my desk…starting with the days work without a coffee in ma hand or in my guts…
A morning coffee helps to re-energize the sleeping brain cells, to revitalise the thoughts and to get going for the day.
The desk job is primarily a boring job unless you have an element of surprise in it. This is given to you in the creative field where the surprise is the order of the day.
Sarah sat at her desk and stared at her computer screen . She was in complete shock !! A wave of nausea was rising up threw her .” How could he have found me ? ” , she thought to herself .
She sat there, hunched over her desk. They were the same notes she had been pouring through all day. Maybe they would say something new this time. Hopefully. Her eyes were heavy as she scanned through the same paragraph for the hundredth time.
I sit at my desk, slowly wasting away, hour by hour. I sit in an uncomfortable chair, in an unpleasant room, surrounded by unintelligent people, all listening to the same unimpressive speech I’ve ever been unfortunate enough to hear.
It had seen truly better days, but now crouched in the corner of my room, nicked and covered in a layer of dusty abandoned drawings. It slowly grew as it accumulated junk only worth their weight in memories, peaked piles sitting precariously, waiting to fall down in further disarray at the slightest touch.
It wasn’t my desk, and never would be. Just a thing that I had inherited years ago. It became my cluttered, paint-stained workplace and surface of choice each day as I first compulsively completed my school work, then sketched late into the sleepless night. It was a place where many cups of coffee and tears had been spilled.
well, desks are usually made of wood. I like to dance on them during class but the teachers do not approve of that. One day I plan to train my self to make money dancing on a desk. You know the lady’s love that. I am wonderful, kind of a bug deal. ALL of us gingers are. We are just fantastic and all the world should bow down at our feet while we preform.
i sit. blocked. trying. impatient my thoughts wander
birds flit’
butterflys fly
and i sit
in my desk
waiting
for the words
to come .
silent
edging forward
passionately through
my
……. thoughts?
The desk was cluttered with notebooks, texts, and magazines. Pens and pencils. A wallet, keys and numerous pairs of glasses. A candle, a mini globe and a stone. A pile of CDs. Ticket stubs, a flashlight and some batteries that may or may not be useful.
I am sitting at one, which I use not only for my computer but also for the cat dish and my electric skillet, and this is where I usually eat, dinner, lunch, breakfast. Hard to think of food when you are constantly paying video games but I manage. The desk is glass so it cleans up really well.
This desk…this desk holds every secret I’ve ever kept. Each drawer resembles the level of intensity the foretelling of those secrets can damage those around me.
I sit near my desk that was a hand me down from an ex boy…..I’ve gotten rid of most things that remind me of him, but not this……not yet at least! I always keep people close in my heart throughout my life in some way…..perhaps I’ll save a letter, or a note from school, or an old journal with my young thoughts forming on the pages of my life, reminding me of lost loves or devastating teen crushes. I miss so many people and think of them often. I may not see them for years at a time. Thoughts at my desk.
I sit at my desk, wondering why you don’t try. It has been over 8 years and still you make no effort to understand. You have no compassion. You make no move to understand what he goes through. Words overwhelm him and yet you continue to throw them at him like knives. I can’t help but believe that you think bullying him will somehow make him not what he is. He will always be what he is. It’s not for you to force him to understand what you need, but it is for you to help him understand what he needs.
I was supposed to read strange books on the mind for the paper due next week. I spent today crying instead. The books are still sitting next to me, unopened and waiting for a different day.
I remember the dark-brown short little desks we used in fourth grade. They had a big drawer attached to them, and I’d put things in my desk. Somehow the desks seem set in a dark, gray room where I was bored and cranky.
I sit at my desk penning the letter that tells you of my departure. I’ve crumbled sheets upon sheets of paper already; I’m afraid to peek over my shoulder to see the immensity that is that pile. The ink has smudged and over my shoulder goes another sheet. Focus. Dearest… I’ve written to tell you that we can no longer be together…
And everyday it is the same thing, over and over until fingers begin to lose their motility, and nails grow misshapen, yellow and uneven. Until knuckles are twisted and gnarled and much too dry.
It was a lovely desk. A sturdy one, solid and best of all, it was white in color. “Perfect!” she thought and gleefully took out her credit card. She can already imagine the wonderful things she would write as she worked on the desk. Somehow, her creativity juices started flowing as soon as she ran her hands across the smooth white surface. Smiling, her search for the perfect desk has come to an end.
square, brown, wooden, comfortable. makes me think back to my student life. this is where i cultivated my thoughts. posters. motivation. inspiration. blockage. brick wall. disconnection. inner connection. academics. books. pens. phone. cubicle. work. play. exploration. plastic. table but different.
Sitting alone, watching the clock. Tick, tick, tick. The sound echoes, the sweat drips. Paper still empty. The pen sits tight in the hand, shaking. This is the end. BELL!
juma, sit down!
but maam
I said, have a sit juma
and stay on your seat
is that too much to ask?
Maam, this isnt my desk
It is not?
it’s there on my desk: pale as moonlight, grey as dust,
a dream rests, crushed by idleness.
i lay in front of it,
catching the slow drip of blood that falls from the edge
and when someone’ll see us they will say here rests her dreams
The things that sit on my desk are varied. They hold great meaning, and span many years of my life. The things that sit on my desk will collect dust, age, and fade, just as everything else in the life of one who thinks they will live forever.
The homework that remains unfinished. Shelter in case of a nuclear lockdown. That’s all I can think of for the word ‘desk.’ Honestly, after all these years I don’t even consider it that notable anymore. Maybe a desk is just a desk. And that’s all I’ve got.
i once crapped on a desk. although it was really sad because i realized i was crapping on a woman’s breasts, but then i was like “hey this is awesome” and we did it. that was a good desk-y experience. i like desks more now. :)
Desks are interesting. You see, my desk is an art desk, and is currently sitting as an incline plane. This makes it a bit difficult, but then again, easier for me to do homework. My books are always sliding off of the surface when I’m trying to work on my Physics or Calculus. It’s really quite bothersome, but I have become used to it.
Are my legs sticking out again? How long is this class going to go till? Can I leave my desk yet? Whatever the bell just went. See you again next block.
Smooth, denting my finger as I run it down. Hard, yet you can feel how thin it is.
Honestly, the word is desk, and it seems a really boring thing to use as a prompt, so ima skip today’s word.
not even a minute.
The flowers on the desk
and the smell in the hall
the roses dripping red
as the blood on the wall
The paper’s glaring at you
but noone seems to hear
Pray to God just a nightmare
Cause you can’t feel what isnt real
Someone’s coming toward you
and they don’t know what to say
This burden like an anvil
that you carry everyday
So drop down to your knees
and let them find you there
forgiveness is what you plea
but no one really cares
So now you come back home
to the house that love destroyed
and you wake up every night
with this deep and growing void
The letters they sent to you
that night you ran away
now its time to face the truth
too far gone you cant be saved
Losing love is much to hard now
everything inside you’s screaming
“Just come back we’ll fix this all now”
the prayers unanswered your not dreaming
pedals falling from the flowers
Stems grow old and start to rust
These faded memories us together
burn the desk once they combust
Everytime I sit at my desk and hope to write something eloquent or profound or just something lucid with a quasi-legitimate storyline and a character that one can buy into, I end up sounding like a Don Draper wannabe.
Writing’s tough.
I miss my desk at my old work place so much. I regret from time to time for wasting my time at my last job and taking the job for granted. Oh, desk, how I miss you. I hope we meet again.
I don’t want to be a desk monkey. I don’t want to be a desk potato. I don’t want to be a desk and seat for a dominatrix. I really should sit at my desk. I would be more productive.
Here I am on my desk…starting with the days work without a coffee in ma hand or in my guts…
A morning coffee helps to re-energize the sleeping brain cells, to revitalise the thoughts and to get going for the day.
The desk job is primarily a boring job unless you have an element of surprise in it. This is given to you in the creative field where the surprise is the order of the day.
Sarah sat at her desk and stared at her computer screen . She was in complete shock !! A wave of nausea was rising up threw her .” How could he have found me ? ” , she thought to herself .
She sat there, hunched over her desk. They were the same notes she had been pouring through all day. Maybe they would say something new this time. Hopefully. Her eyes were heavy as she scanned through the same paragraph for the hundredth time.
I sit at my desk, slowly wasting away, hour by hour. I sit in an uncomfortable chair, in an unpleasant room, surrounded by unintelligent people, all listening to the same unimpressive speech I’ve ever been unfortunate enough to hear.
Desks are utilitarian but sometimes they feel kind of confining. Like I’m in an 1950’s office just following a repetitive sad monotonous life.
Top
It had seen truly better days, but now crouched in the corner of my room, nicked and covered in a layer of dusty abandoned drawings. It slowly grew as it accumulated junk only worth their weight in memories, peaked piles sitting precariously, waiting to fall down in further disarray at the slightest touch.
It wasn’t my desk, and never would be. Just a thing that I had inherited years ago. It became my cluttered, paint-stained workplace and surface of choice each day as I first compulsively completed my school work, then sketched late into the sleepless night. It was a place where many cups of coffee and tears had been spilled.
Poop.
My desk is filled with more crap than I possibly ever need. The cluttered top is distracting, but i never have time to clean it.
well, desks are usually made of wood. I like to dance on them during class but the teachers do not approve of that. One day I plan to train my self to make money dancing on a desk. You know the lady’s love that. I am wonderful, kind of a bug deal. ALL of us gingers are. We are just fantastic and all the world should bow down at our feet while we preform.
i sit. blocked. trying. impatient my thoughts wander
birds flit’
butterflys fly
and i sit
in my desk
waiting
for the words
to come .
silent
edging forward
passionately through
my
……. thoughts?
My desk is talking to me again. I think I might be going insane. If only I didn’t run out of my medication. WHY CANT I BE NORMAL!?!?!
*Head-desk*
Desk- head
head-penis
penis-vagina
gross-mold
green-black
white-christmas
bulbs-red
The desk was cluttered with notebooks, texts, and magazines. Pens and pencils. A wallet, keys and numerous pairs of glasses. A candle, a mini globe and a stone. A pile of CDs. Ticket stubs, a flashlight and some batteries that may or may not be useful.
I am sitting at one, which I use not only for my computer but also for the cat dish and my electric skillet, and this is where I usually eat, dinner, lunch, breakfast. Hard to think of food when you are constantly paying video games but I manage. The desk is glass so it cleans up really well.
This desk…this desk holds every secret I’ve ever kept. Each drawer resembles the level of intensity the foretelling of those secrets can damage those around me.
I sit near my desk that was a hand me down from an ex boy…..I’ve gotten rid of most things that remind me of him, but not this……not yet at least! I always keep people close in my heart throughout my life in some way…..perhaps I’ll save a letter, or a note from school, or an old journal with my young thoughts forming on the pages of my life, reminding me of lost loves or devastating teen crushes. I miss so many people and think of them often. I may not see them for years at a time. Thoughts at my desk.
I sit at my desk, wondering why you don’t try. It has been over 8 years and still you make no effort to understand. You have no compassion. You make no move to understand what he goes through. Words overwhelm him and yet you continue to throw them at him like knives. I can’t help but believe that you think bullying him will somehow make him not what he is. He will always be what he is. It’s not for you to force him to understand what you need, but it is for you to help him understand what he needs.
I was supposed to read strange books on the mind for the paper due next week. I spent today crying instead. The books are still sitting next to me, unopened and waiting for a different day.
We’d fashioned it into an altar where we sacrificed many hours in the service of the master. And into his hands we delivered the poison of our minds.
I remember the dark-brown short little desks we used in fourth grade. They had a big drawer attached to them, and I’d put things in my desk. Somehow the desks seem set in a dark, gray room where I was bored and cranky.
Desk, the thing i sit at during class. it supports what i put on there, all my books, gym cloths, and me. Something i use alot!! yup! i do
“Why is a raven like a writing desk?” I can see Johnny Depp in a frizzy orange wig. His angry eyes growing ever bigger as he recites the worst.
I sit at my desk penning the letter that tells you of my departure. I’ve crumbled sheets upon sheets of paper already; I’m afraid to peek over my shoulder to see the immensity that is that pile. The ink has smudged and over my shoulder goes another sheet. Focus. Dearest… I’ve written to tell you that we can no longer be together…