“It’s a lemon!”
“It’s a bloody classic!” I argued, arms crossed. “They don’t make care like this anymore,”
“Yeah, because they SUCK,”
I scoffed, running a hand affectionately along the fender. “It’s ok, girl. She doesn’t know anything about cars,”
The assemblage of lemons on the table grew larger and larger. Their aroma brung back memories of summer, love, and happiness. Unaware of the zeal with which she stacked the lemons, the pile began to overflow. One lone lemon rolled away from the pile, off of the table, out of the window, and into the city.
The assemblage of lemons on the table grew larger and larger. Their sweet aroma gave her sensual memories of summer, love, and happiness. One by one the pile grew larger, until without noticing, she overstocked the pile. One lone lemon rolled away, tumbled off of the table, out of the window, and into the city.
it was a lemon. they said it in distaste, turning up their noses. it would never work. but that was why she bought it. for the same reason she made lemonade every summer. she cooked with fresh lemon juice. she dressed in the brightest shades of yellow around this time of year. lemons were his favourite, and now they were her last comfort until she learned to live without him.
the lemons glisten in the corners of my eye
i lay on the floor of the kitchen
stained with blood and
sadness,
and fear
i cant forget the fear,
but all i can think about is the bright
yellow of those distant lemons
Lemons. The losers of life’s fruit basket. They are always characterized as what “Life” gives you when it wants to kick you in the pants. Seriously guys, it’s just a citrus fruit, like an orange. Or a grapefruit. Wouldn’t that be poetic
“When life gives you grapefruits, don’t ask why, accept them. Thank life for the fruits it has bestowed upon you.”
The girl sat in the room. Her mum had just came back from the grocery and brought her a lemon. She wondered why. Her mom had been acting strange lately. Giving her useless things constantly. She was rather concerned for her.
Once there was a lemon. It met a knife. They were in love when a person cut the lemon in half with the knife. The lemon died and the knife suffered a highly traumatic experience. The end.
All I can think about is my pounding head, but yet I am here. Writing. How can I deal with this day after day? The drive to write over powers my aches sometimes. I don’t understand the pounding headache. I think I was given a lemon at birth…a lemon head.
It was her favorite Halloween costume but the spray from that lemon colored car had caused it to deteriorate into the gutter. That was when she was three. Somehow she had never forgiven Halloween or lemons. And she wasn’t going to start.
the lies on your lips taste like sweet lemonade
its sour existence a sugary charade
chilled and icy, swallowed whole without a doubt
as if you were my savior in a world plagued by drought.
It was what she ate when She didn’t like herself. She didn’t want to feel physical pain, what is that? A transient thing. She didn’t want to bleed. What is that? Some homemade dye for her second favourite shirt. She wanted to feel her insides, feel them like she could feel her brain, all soured and puckered in discord.
Ah.
The sweet pungent smell emanates from the inner fissures of my being,
it is funny how certain things stay with you.
I sit out on our family’s porch, eyes closed, stomach full, listening to the communal chatter of my neighbors in a soothing coalescence.
The fruit of that day filling my daze.
The sweet, pungent twang emanates from the crevaces of my mind,
it is funny how some things never leave you.
I watch as the glistening sun arises, lackadaisically twirling his tie
Hiding in green canopy,
I drool in summer laze.
Against this fruitful panoply,
what more is there to praise?
Cheddar snow buries me soft,
sprouts tickle me like maiden hair,
but then icicles sharp descend from high aloft,
and an onion tears crisply against the air.
I scream my acidic bright,
my pulp mashed against my brothers’ pain,
until only I lie discarded against the porcelain white,
sinking in olive puddles of oily, forgotten rain.
Lemons, the taste, the smell, she smiled. Oh, how she’d missed the summer. The citrus universe in her mind, getting beneath her skin, it launched her ten, twenty years back, back after graduation in the parking lot behind the principals car with her friends, their cheap knockoff perfume filling her nose and her nicotine-infused brain, back to when her brother was alive and they stirred sugar and lemons and water in a cracked glass pitcher, back when she and her girlfriend had went to the orchard and all the apples had been gone, replaced unbecomingly with the yellow fruit, and they had bought several of them and made lemon pie, oh, yes, lemon.
Lemons are yellow and represent the taste of sour. However they make lemonade which is a sweet summertime drink. This is where the saying “It takes lemons to make lemonade” comes from. Lemons can also be used in baking
The child placed the tart lemon upon his small, pink tongue for the first time, expecting something sweet. Needless to say, he was unpleasantly surprised and made a sour face. His parents laughed at him, and he was scarred for the rest of his life.
The car had to be a lemon. I mean, why else would we have suddenly broken down on the side of the road? It was brand new, too, as far as I knew.
I glanced over as Ryan sighed and swung the car door shut. He slammed his hands on the hood of the car. “Come on, come ON!” he yelled, pounding his fist against the metal.
When life gives you lemons, you don’t make lemonade. Lemons are damn sour and you should throw them right back at life. Show him who’s the boss. Besides all the lemons have tons of pesticides and gmo stuff so why would you want them anyway.
the lemon tree out the back was frail & twisted, the fruit late & pale. it had little to offer her but she smiled more in her tending to it than any of the rose bushes out the front.
Sour and but never sweet. Seems a lot like life, does it not? Or maybe like love? Either way, it twists your face with it’s sour flavor and surprising taste.
They squeezed the juice into my open eyes, the acidic liquid dripping and burning. I struggled, but could not move, and now, could not see. They begin kicking me relentlessly. I guess that’s what happens when you head down dark alleyways drunkenly singing about lemon curds.
it was smooth, which is rather odd for a lemon. she picked it up from the table, and was almost certain that someone had rubbed it with sandpaper or something. Why was the lemon so smooth? why would you sandpaper a lemon?
I opened my laptop. I had about twenty minutes of alone time. This moment could not be wasted. I started furtively at the screen. Yes, yes, open up the Harry Potter section, filter by maturity rating- I’ve struck lemon!
“Hey Carmine?”
“Gaaaaaah.”
“Can you come help me-”
“GO AWAY!”
Zesty powerful goodness. She eats the rinds after you’re done. This helps you know she will grow up to be strange and lovely, zesty, powerful, and good.
“It’s a lemon!”
“It’s a bloody classic!” I argued, arms crossed. “They don’t make care like this anymore,”
“Yeah, because they SUCK,”
I scoffed, running a hand affectionately along the fender. “It’s ok, girl. She doesn’t know anything about cars,”
yellow bright, texture, sour, healthy, good for cleaning, smells good
The assemblage of lemons on the table grew larger and larger. Their aroma brung back memories of summer, love, and happiness. Unaware of the zeal with which she stacked the lemons, the pile began to overflow. One lone lemon rolled away from the pile, off of the table, out of the window, and into the city.
The assemblage of lemons on the table grew larger and larger. Their sweet aroma gave her sensual memories of summer, love, and happiness. One by one the pile grew larger, until without noticing, she overstocked the pile. One lone lemon rolled away, tumbled off of the table, out of the window, and into the city.
it was a lemon. they said it in distaste, turning up their noses. it would never work. but that was why she bought it. for the same reason she made lemonade every summer. she cooked with fresh lemon juice. she dressed in the brightest shades of yellow around this time of year. lemons were his favourite, and now they were her last comfort until she learned to live without him.
the lemons glisten in the corners of my eye
i lay on the floor of the kitchen
stained with blood and
sadness,
and fear
i cant forget the fear,
but all i can think about is the bright
yellow of those distant lemons
Lemons. The losers of life’s fruit basket. They are always characterized as what “Life” gives you when it wants to kick you in the pants. Seriously guys, it’s just a citrus fruit, like an orange. Or a grapefruit. Wouldn’t that be poetic
“When life gives you grapefruits, don’t ask why, accept them. Thank life for the fruits it has bestowed upon you.”
The girl sat in the room. Her mum had just came back from the grocery and brought her a lemon. She wondered why. Her mom had been acting strange lately. Giving her useless things constantly. She was rather concerned for her.
Once there was a lemon. It met a knife. They were in love when a person cut the lemon in half with the knife. The lemon died and the knife suffered a highly traumatic experience. The end.
All I can think about is my pounding head, but yet I am here. Writing. How can I deal with this day after day? The drive to write over powers my aches sometimes. I don’t understand the pounding headache. I think I was given a lemon at birth…a lemon head.
It was her favorite Halloween costume but the spray from that lemon colored car had caused it to deteriorate into the gutter. That was when she was three. Somehow she had never forgiven Halloween or lemons. And she wasn’t going to start.
Never eat a raw lemon, unless you want the biter truth, be glad it doesnt give you empty promises instead
the lies on your lips taste like sweet lemonade
its sour existence a sugary charade
chilled and icy, swallowed whole without a doubt
as if you were my savior in a world plagued by drought.
It was what she ate when She didn’t like herself. She didn’t want to feel physical pain, what is that? A transient thing. She didn’t want to bleed. What is that? Some homemade dye for her second favourite shirt. She wanted to feel her insides, feel them like she could feel her brain, all soured and puckered in discord.
Crisp seduction
conquering the senses
conquering the mind
conquering the swelling taste buds,
the fruit forgotten.
The crisp peel
juices pinching my mouth
pinching my lips
You think it’s sour? Ha,
just take a bite.
I stood under a lemon tree
with my letters of love
fragrant with the scent of sweet
and sour.
I stood under a lemon tree
with my arms empty
yearning for the heart
of another.
Ah.
The sweet pungent smell emanates from the inner fissures of my being,
it is funny how certain things stay with you.
I sit out on our family’s porch, eyes closed, stomach full, listening to the communal chatter of my neighbors in a soothing coalescence.
The fruit of that day filling my daze.
The sweet, pungent twang emanates from the crevaces of my mind,
it is funny how some things never leave you.
I watch as the glistening sun arises, lackadaisically twirling his tie
Oh the creature that represents the sun,
sour, yet sweet,
pungeant, yet ethereal,
life giving, and there till life is done.
The lemon.
Look the other way, past the church bells of brass, and beside you there will be a field.
Lie down. Pick a flower if you so choose.
Just don’t fall asleep.
Hiding in green canopy,
I drool in summer laze.
Against this fruitful panoply,
what more is there to praise?
Cheddar snow buries me soft,
sprouts tickle me like maiden hair,
but then icicles sharp descend from high aloft,
and an onion tears crisply against the air.
I scream my acidic bright,
my pulp mashed against my brothers’ pain,
until only I lie discarded against the porcelain white,
sinking in olive puddles of oily, forgotten rain.
Lemons, the taste, the smell, she smiled. Oh, how she’d missed the summer. The citrus universe in her mind, getting beneath her skin, it launched her ten, twenty years back, back after graduation in the parking lot behind the principals car with her friends, their cheap knockoff perfume filling her nose and her nicotine-infused brain, back to when her brother was alive and they stirred sugar and lemons and water in a cracked glass pitcher, back when she and her girlfriend had went to the orchard and all the apples had been gone, replaced unbecomingly with the yellow fruit, and they had bought several of them and made lemon pie, oh, yes, lemon.
Lemons are yellow and represent the taste of sour. However they make lemonade which is a sweet summertime drink. This is where the saying “It takes lemons to make lemonade” comes from. Lemons can also be used in baking
The child placed the tart lemon upon his small, pink tongue for the first time, expecting something sweet. Needless to say, he was unpleasantly surprised and made a sour face. His parents laughed at him, and he was scarred for the rest of his life.
The car had to be a lemon. I mean, why else would we have suddenly broken down on the side of the road? It was brand new, too, as far as I knew.
I glanced over as Ryan sighed and swung the car door shut. He slammed his hands on the hood of the car. “Come on, come ON!” he yelled, pounding his fist against the metal.
When life gives you lemons, you don’t make lemonade. Lemons are damn sour and you should throw them right back at life. Show him who’s the boss. Besides all the lemons have tons of pesticides and gmo stuff so why would you want them anyway.
the lemon tree out the back was frail & twisted, the fruit late & pale. it had little to offer her but she smiled more in her tending to it than any of the rose bushes out the front.
When life gives you lemons, take those lemons and stop using this cliche because I’m tired of it being beaten to death.
that day i fasted,
all but lemonade stuttered.
through the soundsystem you called me beautiful.
i can still feel the shocks.
If life gives you lemons, make limonade!!! With some sugar it can be not so bad.
Sour and but never sweet. Seems a lot like life, does it not? Or maybe like love? Either way, it twists your face with it’s sour flavor and surprising taste.
They squeezed the juice into my open eyes, the acidic liquid dripping and burning. I struggled, but could not move, and now, could not see. They begin kicking me relentlessly. I guess that’s what happens when you head down dark alleyways drunkenly singing about lemon curds.
It was warm in there, warm and vaguely soft. The air had a detergent quality to it, a feeling of old towels, a feeling of clean hair.
Her mother was juicing a lemon at the kitchen counter, the soft electric smell of it spilling out between her bandaged fingers.
The car wasn’t a lemon–the engine was. Stalling. Idling. Stalling stalling stalling. Perhaps I’ll trade it in and try to get an orange.
Lemons are terrible.
They’re too sour for the soul.
And they hurt your eyes when you squeeze it in your eyes.
it was smooth, which is rather odd for a lemon. she picked it up from the table, and was almost certain that someone had rubbed it with sandpaper or something. Why was the lemon so smooth? why would you sandpaper a lemon?
I opened my laptop. I had about twenty minutes of alone time. This moment could not be wasted. I started furtively at the screen. Yes, yes, open up the Harry Potter section, filter by maturity rating- I’ve struck lemon!
“Hey Carmine?”
“Gaaaaaah.”
“Can you come help me-”
“GO AWAY!”
They poured from the sky. One day. And they never stopped after that.
Kilo by kilo. Millions of them, blotting out the blue expanse of air behind them. They fell like sponge from above.
They fell till one could no longer made lemonade of them.
Zesty powerful goodness. She eats the rinds after you’re done. This helps you know she will grow up to be strange and lovely, zesty, powerful, and good.