Do you remember when I used to be able to write things? Ahh. Neither can I. I am all become disfigured with the writing parts, and I seem unable to discover why. Is it something that effects? Or perhaps a mere problem. I struggle and struggle.
Why is it that at stores disfigured cans are cheaper ? Does a dent or a flaw in packaging change the way your caned peaches are going to taste, no. So why are we discriminating against the disfiguration of cans ? Even flawed canned food needs equal love and respect as “perfect” cylinder shaped cans. But then again it is just a can of food that we will throw away so who cares about them.
But it wasn’t his face, disfigured though it was, that disgusted me so thoroughly. No, no it was his very SOUL, the dark and twisted thing that it was, that made shrink away, as frightened as a child when confronted with a cracked closet door.
She sat in the room, wondering how many people were secretly thinking about her. She wasn’t vain, not by a long shot; Annie, a girl of only eight, had already accrued a lifetime of scars on her body. Her face was a pinstriped collage of red lines.
Her heart was disfigured from the devastating blow of the words, “I don’t love you”. She had been in her room again, living those words over, and over, and over.
This is usually such a fun thing to do, this writing about one word, but today’s word is just ugly. There is nothing good to write about being disfigured. Just the fact that the word begins with “dis” says a lot. It’s a negative word. Figured it would be. They can’t all be beautiful. This writing is making me feel disfigured.
He stared at me like he’d seen a ghost. I could see the fear and disgust in his eyes but I didn’t mind. I just had to do it. If only to convince myself it was finally over. He never really loved me. He never did. I plunged the knife deeper in his chest and watched as the light left his eyes. At least he’ll never see my disfigured face again.
Racket clack on the rafters, throwing stones down from the peaks of terracotta house tiles, sending them into the street in turret rains, and he was there beide me, and he was there beside me, and we hit the ground laughing, the sound still in my ears.
Humbled and huddled in small dirt caves, sweat dripping down faces, blood dripping down matte walls, water dripping in eyes and eyes stinging with water.
he seemed so ugly at first, i mean i could hardly look at him. But then i saw him pick up a little girl’s doll, he smiled at a puppy outside chasing leaves. He was kind. Then he didn’t look so bad . . .
he absolutely loathed the fact that he was disfigured, that an enormous scar like a bolt of lightning stretched across his entire face. no matter how much she might beg him to go back into the world, he refused. no one would look kindly upon his horrid face, and she was the only one who would stand by him.
everything that exsists is this. i wish it wasnt so. but it seems to be. we are all unfit and miserable creatures. we are all disfigured souls with saddening lives and even more depressing futures.
The mangled ice cream sandwich lay on the floor between their feet. He looked up at her, horrified, and apologized profusely. He had been so close to asking her out to lunch.
She thought about how long it would take to climb the flight of stairs before her. Last year she would have just bounded up two at a time, but now… Now she would have to devise a plan of attack.
my life looked incomplete disfigured,
i had the pieces to the puzzle, all laying in front of me,
merely putting them together was the sturggle i saught,
why wasnt I able to put them in part?
why did they seperate in the first place?
life tends to discmember itself, on its own,
its the reciecepts job to reform, reassemble,
ceaselessely!
any lock can be shattered,
for the minister who knows the matieral of the matter,
will be he who shatters!
People think that being disfigured has something to do with your looks. Most of the time, it does. But it’s possible to be disfigured in the soul- to be so twisted and bent and ugly that you can’t even stand to look at yourself, no matter how pretty the outside packaging may be. To have a soul that is almost beyond repair. And there’s no surgery to fix that. Maybe love can, but not always.
Five out of seven of us are disfigured, said the person in the nearest corner, but you won’t be able to tell which ones. We all wear masks, you see. Some masks, they cover a small area – an eye, or a nose, or a jaw. Others, it’s the stereotypical ninja look – everyone below the eyes, shrouded. The rest of us, it’s an entirely new face. And you’ll never know if the real face beneath the plaster is still societally passable.
After all the choices he’d made, his heart was slightly more disfigured, but just slightly mind you. If you were to hold up the two hearts, the original and the way it looked now you would notice…but if you were to look at the latest version of his heart, you would barely be able to tell it had changed.
Just slightly blacker, peakier here and there, with a slight bulge here or a white tube there.
It is always the little things over time that change us, mold us, perfect or disfigure us. (And our organs.)
Most people assumed that she came that way but the truth is much more difficult to come up with. It’d be easy to say that’s how she was made but really someone else made her that way. She was disfigured by something so foreign to their worlds that they couldn’t even begin to comprehend the truth.
life is a strange touch, the way my soul skates across the surface of the physical – one little moment of tangential touch before i shoot on to somewhere, and the world curves on to somewhere else, and the way we both come out a little disfigured after.
The beast writhed in agony as he fell to the floor. The hero, a disgusting excuse for one with a smirk on his face, looked down seemingly in pity, before smirking teasingly and striding away. The poor beast was stuck, alone and terrified.
Her name was unnatural, just like the rest of her. Few could pronounce it. Her face was littered with scars, just like the heart she kept locked away from potential suitors. Not that any of them saw her. She was locked away, the towers mystery.
His figure slowly crept towards the lake, limbs crying in pain, lips spewing disgusting shouts of threat. A trail of red followed behind the creature, tiring him as he fought to get away. He knew the ‘hero’ would be above him, towering.
He sat there, and he thought, drowning in his own self-pity. His emotions like warring nations. He looked down to see nothing. He cringed. Was it worth it?
The man toppled onto the floor, his disfigured form lay sprawled in front of me. How could this be?
I stumbled to the man’s side and checked for a pulse. He looked as though he’d been through hell and back.
I held my breath as I waited with my fingers pressed to his jaw, for more than I was comfortable. There was no sign of life.
Her mind was filled with clouded, shapeless forms milling in and out of her most private thoughts. Disfigured faces and barely audible sentence fragments swelled and shrunk around her, twisting and distorting until they were unrecognizable. The dreamer was there, yet she wasn’t, none of the shadows took notice of her prone, sobbing form. She had one thought in the too-familiar place: she was so terribly alone. She was always alone in her nightmares, no matter who she shared her bed with that night.
a pitch of torches, a pile of sticks and flame, a man among it all his hands twisted, his eyes turned inside his head, his back leaning down towards the earth and you look at him with fear and he looks at you with fear and he cries out to be left alone and you feel the hand loosen around your heart wondering which of you is really the beast after all
The scream pierced the night. The boy sighed, he was used to it. His face was damaged due to a fire when he was a child. He was so disfigured that whenever he ventured outside, no a common thing, he was screamed at. Babies cried when they saw him, mothers led their children away. Life as a monster he called it.
There was something off about the way that he was looking at me. The more I stared at him, the more his face seemed to melt, and his features seemed to blend together into a pot of emotions, feelings, and memories. I wanted nothing more than to look away, but I couldn’t. People talk about freight trains, crashes, that sort of thing when they say they couldn’t look away, but with this — I really just felt stuck.
I was going to die this way, wasn’t I? Staring into the face of the unknown horror, fearing beyond fear itself that I would find some of myself in his mess.
I stare at the mirror, but the woman who looks at me is not who I am. This woman is badly burned all over her face. Her nose, her once perfectly curved lips, and her normally bright eyes were no longer shaped how they used to be. Why me? I asked myself, as I pulled my hood over my face and sighed.
“I feel like at some point your values got disfigured,” says mom, tossing her pans into soapy water.
I look up abruptly from the kitchen table, offended. “What? What is THAT supposed to mean?”
“It says on Netflix you watched eight hours of Pokemon: Indigo last night. Have you even got your homework done?”
“I’ve… gotten it to the acceptable level of doneness that will keep me from getting in trouble tomorrow!”
The disfigurement wasn’t visible for her. It was inside. In her soul, where she knew it really counted. Would she ever feel normal again? Or would she live a forever of knowing a disastrous personal truth, invisible to the outside world.
I’ only slightly disfigured. Skin cancer caused one side of nose to be lowered than the other.
Luckily, I’m OK
Do you remember when I used to be able to write things? Ahh. Neither can I. I am all become disfigured with the writing parts, and I seem unable to discover why. Is it something that effects? Or perhaps a mere problem. I struggle and struggle.
Why is it that at stores disfigured cans are cheaper ? Does a dent or a flaw in packaging change the way your caned peaches are going to taste, no. So why are we discriminating against the disfiguration of cans ? Even flawed canned food needs equal love and respect as “perfect” cylinder shaped cans. But then again it is just a can of food that we will throw away so who cares about them.
But it wasn’t his face, disfigured though it was, that disgusted me so thoroughly. No, no it was his very SOUL, the dark and twisted thing that it was, that made shrink away, as frightened as a child when confronted with a cracked closet door.
She sat in the room, wondering how many people were secretly thinking about her. She wasn’t vain, not by a long shot; Annie, a girl of only eight, had already accrued a lifetime of scars on her body. Her face was a pinstriped collage of red lines.
Her heart was disfigured from the devastating blow of the words, “I don’t love you”. She had been in her room again, living those words over, and over, and over.
The mans arm was disfigured from the bomb that had exploded near him during the war. It was a constant reminder of memories he often tried to forget.
This is usually such a fun thing to do, this writing about one word, but today’s word is just ugly. There is nothing good to write about being disfigured. Just the fact that the word begins with “dis” says a lot. It’s a negative word. Figured it would be. They can’t all be beautiful. This writing is making me feel disfigured.
He stared at me like he’d seen a ghost. I could see the fear and disgust in his eyes but I didn’t mind. I just had to do it. If only to convince myself it was finally over. He never really loved me. He never did. I plunged the knife deeper in his chest and watched as the light left his eyes. At least he’ll never see my disfigured face again.
Rafters:
Racket clack on the rafters, throwing stones down from the peaks of terracotta house tiles, sending them into the street in turret rains, and he was there beide me, and he was there beside me, and we hit the ground laughing, the sound still in my ears.
Humbled and huddled in small dirt caves, sweat dripping down faces, blood dripping down matte walls, water dripping in eyes and eyes stinging with water.
he seemed so ugly at first, i mean i could hardly look at him. But then i saw him pick up a little girl’s doll, he smiled at a puppy outside chasing leaves. He was kind. Then he didn’t look so bad . . .
he absolutely loathed the fact that he was disfigured, that an enormous scar like a bolt of lightning stretched across his entire face. no matter how much she might beg him to go back into the world, he refused. no one would look kindly upon his horrid face, and she was the only one who would stand by him.
everything that exsists is this. i wish it wasnt so. but it seems to be. we are all unfit and miserable creatures. we are all disfigured souls with saddening lives and even more depressing futures.
The mangled ice cream sandwich lay on the floor between their feet. He looked up at her, horrified, and apologized profusely. He had been so close to asking her out to lunch.
She thought about how long it would take to climb the flight of stairs before her. Last year she would have just bounded up two at a time, but now… Now she would have to devise a plan of attack.
limbs twisted pain broken bent loss sadness reaching out hiding shopping retail clothes boat fish stars universe all
my life looked incomplete disfigured,
i had the pieces to the puzzle, all laying in front of me,
merely putting them together was the sturggle i saught,
why wasnt I able to put them in part?
why did they seperate in the first place?
life tends to discmember itself, on its own,
its the reciecepts job to reform, reassemble,
ceaselessely!
any lock can be shattered,
for the minister who knows the matieral of the matter,
will be he who shatters!
People think that being disfigured has something to do with your looks. Most of the time, it does. But it’s possible to be disfigured in the soul- to be so twisted and bent and ugly that you can’t even stand to look at yourself, no matter how pretty the outside packaging may be. To have a soul that is almost beyond repair. And there’s no surgery to fix that. Maybe love can, but not always.
Five out of seven of us are disfigured, said the person in the nearest corner, but you won’t be able to tell which ones. We all wear masks, you see. Some masks, they cover a small area – an eye, or a nose, or a jaw. Others, it’s the stereotypical ninja look – everyone below the eyes, shrouded. The rest of us, it’s an entirely new face. And you’ll never know if the real face beneath the plaster is still societally passable.
After all the choices he’d made, his heart was slightly more disfigured, but just slightly mind you. If you were to hold up the two hearts, the original and the way it looked now you would notice…but if you were to look at the latest version of his heart, you would barely be able to tell it had changed.
Just slightly blacker, peakier here and there, with a slight bulge here or a white tube there.
It is always the little things over time that change us, mold us, perfect or disfigure us. (And our organs.)
Most people assumed that she came that way but the truth is much more difficult to come up with. It’d be easy to say that’s how she was made but really someone else made her that way. She was disfigured by something so foreign to their worlds that they couldn’t even begin to comprehend the truth.
life is a strange touch, the way my soul skates across the surface of the physical – one little moment of tangential touch before i shoot on to somewhere, and the world curves on to somewhere else, and the way we both come out a little disfigured after.
The beast writhed in agony as he fell to the floor. The hero, a disgusting excuse for one with a smirk on his face, looked down seemingly in pity, before smirking teasingly and striding away. The poor beast was stuck, alone and terrified.
Her name was unnatural, just like the rest of her. Few could pronounce it. Her face was littered with scars, just like the heart she kept locked away from potential suitors. Not that any of them saw her. She was locked away, the towers mystery.
His figure slowly crept towards the lake, limbs crying in pain, lips spewing disgusting shouts of threat. A trail of red followed behind the creature, tiring him as he fought to get away. He knew the ‘hero’ would be above him, towering.
She sat as she stared at his disfigured form. How? How could she have caused this? And yet he blamed it on her, she knew it.
He sat there, and he thought, drowning in his own self-pity. His emotions like warring nations. He looked down to see nothing. He cringed. Was it worth it?
disfigurement and necessity. violence and gravity. laws to laws.
her heart
disfigured and cold
with a burning hole
empty and dark
was her fragile heart
no hope, no fix
shattered.
The man toppled onto the floor, his disfigured form lay sprawled in front of me. How could this be?
I stumbled to the man’s side and checked for a pulse. He looked as though he’d been through hell and back.
I held my breath as I waited with my fingers pressed to his jaw, for more than I was comfortable. There was no sign of life.
Her mind was filled with clouded, shapeless forms milling in and out of her most private thoughts. Disfigured faces and barely audible sentence fragments swelled and shrunk around her, twisting and distorting until they were unrecognizable. The dreamer was there, yet she wasn’t, none of the shadows took notice of her prone, sobbing form. She had one thought in the too-familiar place: she was so terribly alone. She was always alone in her nightmares, no matter who she shared her bed with that night.
tears are only one way to cry; love is another. disfigured despair reveals itself everywhere.
a pitch of torches, a pile of sticks and flame, a man among it all his hands twisted, his eyes turned inside his head, his back leaning down towards the earth and you look at him with fear and he looks at you with fear and he cries out to be left alone and you feel the hand loosen around your heart wondering which of you is really the beast after all
The scream pierced the night. The boy sighed, he was used to it. His face was damaged due to a fire when he was a child. He was so disfigured that whenever he ventured outside, no a common thing, he was screamed at. Babies cried when they saw him, mothers led their children away. Life as a monster he called it.
Du siehst dich im Spiegel,
du erträgst den Anblick kaum.
Jedes Lachen-
ist über dich.
Jedes tuscheln-
ist über dich.
Du siehst dich im Spiegel,
du erträgst den Anblick kaum.
Jedes Lachen-
hat nichts mit dir zutun.
Jedes tuscheln-
bezieht sich nicht auf dich.
Du siehst im Spiegel,
nur was du selbst von dir denkst.
There was something off about the way that he was looking at me. The more I stared at him, the more his face seemed to melt, and his features seemed to blend together into a pot of emotions, feelings, and memories. I wanted nothing more than to look away, but I couldn’t. People talk about freight trains, crashes, that sort of thing when they say they couldn’t look away, but with this — I really just felt stuck.
I was going to die this way, wasn’t I? Staring into the face of the unknown horror, fearing beyond fear itself that I would find some of myself in his mess.
I stare at the mirror, but the woman who looks at me is not who I am. This woman is badly burned all over her face. Her nose, her once perfectly curved lips, and her normally bright eyes were no longer shaped how they used to be. Why me? I asked myself, as I pulled my hood over my face and sighed.
“I feel like at some point your values got disfigured,” says mom, tossing her pans into soapy water.
I look up abruptly from the kitchen table, offended. “What? What is THAT supposed to mean?”
“It says on Netflix you watched eight hours of Pokemon: Indigo last night. Have you even got your homework done?”
“I’ve… gotten it to the acceptable level of doneness that will keep me from getting in trouble tomorrow!”
The disfigurement wasn’t visible for her. It was inside. In her soul, where she knew it really counted. Would she ever feel normal again? Or would she live a forever of knowing a disastrous personal truth, invisible to the outside world.