my hair is a nest and i love it. ive always wanted to live in a big nest full of creatures. sticks and feathers and lovely things. nests are so wonderful and cumfy. love nests love nests!!! happy wonderful nests. birds they get to create them and cuddle eachother in them. It is just so grand. nests nesty nest nests
I’m think about the day I’ll leave the nest. Whenever it crosses my mind I can feel some paralyzing fear in my stomach but I can feel the anticipatory excitement in my heart. I can’t wait to spread my wings and fly away from here.
A nest is a safe haven, training wheels. You’re so used to the warmth and protection of your mother, but one day, you’ll have to leave. You’ll be nudged out, forced to fly or fall, but whatever happens is up to you..
the tiny bird with its blue feathers just beginning to strengthen and it’s beak just learning to open and it’s throat just learning to sing, was to be pushed over the edge of the nest. It would fly as high as it has always watched its mother do when she returned to it with food
The warmth of the fire, the radio on low, and the paper rustling at my finger-tips; they brighten my eyes and send shivers down my back. The comfort and love of home on this winter evening reminds me, as it has so many times before, that birds aren’t the only ones who nest.
A nest.
Made of leaves.
Kids are birds now.
Fly around the nest!
Yes, you have wings.
I forgot all about imagination,
until kids with wings,
flew around a leafy nest.
The nest was empty and her heart was hurting. It wasn’t that her children set out to cause her pain. Letting go so they could grow brought a loss she was not prepared to face. She felt as if she was letting herself down as she let them each fly freely for a while. It wasn’t time yet for the final release but touch and go, practicing and repeating for the final day when the real deal would be happeing.
She had gathered all the branches and twigs that her book-bag would carry, and piled them meticulously in her backyard. The birds are bound to come back, she told herself. They’ll come back, she kept convincing herself.
i was good at nesting, i guess. always. but not building a home. is it time to build a home? i mean not in a physical sense. i was always looking for home, and now, i’d like to work toward building one, with someone else, other people.
A nest is where a bird lives. They have to make their own nest because no one will make it for them. Sometimes, bird couple will make a nest together. A nest is also the place where the birds will lay their eggs. Sometimes the eggs fall out, then everyone is sad.
I thought of a nest that a bird makes. A mother collects straw, uses her spit and/or whatever ingenious methods, and assembles what she hopes is a stable home for her chicks. Half of the nests I see are those that have fallen and lay destroyed on paved sidewalks. Maybe she should come of with a better device to secure the nest to the tree perhaps?
It was the darkest of all whites. The smallest egg of them all. A brilliant shine. And one tiny little beak chipping it’s way into the freedom of his new world.
The bird was in the tree nesting her little chicks. I looked out the window and thought about how I wished when I went home my mom would nest me, but instead I walk home and find her on the couch drunk, I lift her and put her to bed, kiss her on the head, and do the nesting.
We were fishing on the dock. It was late at night. Probably around midnight about now. And for those days, way past my curfew. Over under the abandoned restaurant he found it, a tiny nest with one small baby bird egg. A hidden treasure. What small little precious gift of nature is waiting in there? Waiting to spread his wings and take to the skies. I envied the little bird. He had the chance to start over anew.
There is a little baby bird, he lives in a nest. his mommy left him. now he’s all alone. he’s sad. but he’ll be brave. he must learn to eat and fly on his own. he misses his momy. so once he’s old enough he’ll go and find her.
The little birds peeped out in fear when they didn’t see their mother. Three baby oriels filled a nest to capacity. Their mother returned with food for her young.
Castor and Pollux, I heard they’re both names for glowing plasma in the night, St. Elmo’s Fire or does it go by corposant, or torch, or a place where things come up sunny, or bright? Oh, fateful night, then. That which doesn’t breed discontent. Winter’s moon, I know her tune. A nest in a barren tree, lined with down, while silver beams drip upon the town. I know this trail all too well, forgive me if I should travel ’round it. My sight, all sight, is directed on the narrow. Hunting predator, seeking after prey who pray to the weakest gods to do their thinking for them. When a nest or garden of ideas should over flow the confines of such limiting lies and barriers.
Her own little nest to tend to. Each day was the same, a plan of mercilessly tending to her children and cleaning the little messes they made. Once they left home, well, her own nest was her little project. Mindless working each and every day with the same things in the same place each time.
It was no wonder that one day she would go crazy and the police would find her house in shambles, the once glistening trophy of a housewife’s ego.
We lay in the bed for what seemed like hours. our bodies entangled in the sheets like birds in a nest. waiting for our mother to come home. Only, she never would. We lay there quietly. Neither of us talking, asking if the other was okay, or disturbing the silence.
Lost deep and cozy, met into each other’s embrace. The small and the wriggling, the eager and hopeful. The well fed and the malnourished. They reach a crescendo and find themselves forever part of each other. One cuts short, the other to thrive in the gifted love or the other met in the nest, the home, the soul and the deepest places, lost to consciousness.
little birds
must fly one day
so out they go
pushed by their mother
into freedom
so sweet and pure
flying so high
into the sky
far away from
the baby bird home
their nest is left
far behind
in a world unknown
This is a place where birds live. Momma birds raise their baby birds. Some days my hair looks like a bird’s nest. When i see the word nest, i also think of Nestle, which reminds me of hot chocolate on snowy days. The word snow reminds me of Snow White and the Huntsmen, which is a terrible movie.
this is the instinct of the expecting mother. now instead of climbing a career ladder or some such, it’s all about the softness of the baby blanket, the rockiness of the rocking chair, proper temperature control, nice smells emanating from the kitchen…
My brother has one of those bird houses that you can stick up aginst a window and it has a clear back so that you cansee inside. Also, Russian nesting dolls-or ma-trah-shka (spelling?) dolls. We have 2 from when my parents went to Russia to get Nickolai (aka my brother).
A nest is supposed to mean love, but right now it means hate. The twigs, the branches, they scar me, they make my skin scream. My feet are cold, cold and so are my hands. This place has nothing left. I can’t wait to leave, I think as I stare at the stars. When do I leave?
a nest is a place where birds go to create life. and in a way thats what people do too. women “nest” when they’re pregnant or expecting. simply put; a nest is a place to feel safe, feel secure, be warm, comfortable. its quite simple really.
a nest can also be scary, it can hold secrets that you dont want to unleash upon the world.
birds live in them. they are cozy to them its their home. they lat their eggs there. its safe. birds feed their babies in them. they love it is their home. it takes patience to biud it. birds can do it easily they care for their family having a safe place to live.
it’s a place where we rest. lay eggs and sleep at night. we make it with warm blankets and the dog always gets in first. a real pile is all you ever wanted but it is a bit crowded in real life.
I nest in my blankets as try to fall asleep. Oh sweet sleep, where are you?! Why are you leaving me NOW?! I have so much to escape and so much to hide from and so much to dream away in this nest of my blankets.
Carefully i set down my egg. Ha. Why did I decide to call it that just now? I don’t know. I guess you could call it an egg. I watch over it. I keep it safe. But it will never hatch, and I will never be it’s mother.
“Sara!” Carson calls.
Gently I brush leaves over its soft oval edges. “Yeah”
There is an empty nest next to his home. He has fallen in love with a bird who will never come back. She used to sit by the window and preen while he slept. Now he pines in a way he never thought possible. She left and he leaves his heart in her nest- every morning.
I don’t want to be held captive any longer, the way the tiny baby birds are by their mother, kept cooped up in the nest while the rest of the world goes on outside. They can’t fly – they can’t unhide themselves, take pride in themselves on the wing just yet. Their mother has cast her net and kept them close, by forbidding freedom, and inhibiting the reaching of their hearts and minds. Don’t look to far away – you’ve got to keep yourself in, stay, stay – they hear her whisper every day.
bird nest is full of tiny eggs lovely chicks see them in farms and you can hold them aw so cute. nest lik e helena bonham carters hair is like amy winehouse so big loike a bowl was shoved up there o my gosh wonder if it defies gravity why am i talking about this seriously onl
Simply the egg fell into the nest. It was a gentle and soft landing, as if that one life to be as the first snowflake of winter. And as it lay still in the sunshine, all the potential lay still as well. Waiting for its chance to break free.
a home. aplace for birds, but also not just birds. it is a place where i am safe and so are my secrets. my own private where the birds can come and sing to me. no one knows about it but me and the birds because no one has ever cared to ask.
my hair is a nest and i love it. ive always wanted to live in a big nest full of creatures. sticks and feathers and lovely things. nests are so wonderful and cumfy. love nests love nests!!! happy wonderful nests. birds they get to create them and cuddle eachother in them. It is just so grand. nests nesty nest nests
I’m think about the day I’ll leave the nest. Whenever it crosses my mind I can feel some paralyzing fear in my stomach but I can feel the anticipatory excitement in my heart. I can’t wait to spread my wings and fly away from here.
A nest is a safe haven, training wheels. You’re so used to the warmth and protection of your mother, but one day, you’ll have to leave. You’ll be nudged out, forced to fly or fall, but whatever happens is up to you..
the tiny bird with its blue feathers just beginning to strengthen and it’s beak just learning to open and it’s throat just learning to sing, was to be pushed over the edge of the nest. It would fly as high as it has always watched its mother do when she returned to it with food
The warmth of the fire, the radio on low, and the paper rustling at my finger-tips; they brighten my eyes and send shivers down my back. The comfort and love of home on this winter evening reminds me, as it has so many times before, that birds aren’t the only ones who nest.
A nest.
Made of leaves.
Kids are birds now.
Fly around the nest!
Yes, you have wings.
I forgot all about imagination,
until kids with wings,
flew around a leafy nest.
The nest was empty and her heart was hurting. It wasn’t that her children set out to cause her pain. Letting go so they could grow brought a loss she was not prepared to face. She felt as if she was letting herself down as she let them each fly freely for a while. It wasn’t time yet for the final release but touch and go, practicing and repeating for the final day when the real deal would be happeing.
She had gathered all the branches and twigs that her book-bag would carry, and piled them meticulously in her backyard. The birds are bound to come back, she told herself. They’ll come back, she kept convincing herself.
i was good at nesting, i guess. always. but not building a home. is it time to build a home? i mean not in a physical sense. i was always looking for home, and now, i’d like to work toward building one, with someone else, other people.
A nest is where a bird lives. They have to make their own nest because no one will make it for them. Sometimes, bird couple will make a nest together. A nest is also the place where the birds will lay their eggs. Sometimes the eggs fall out, then everyone is sad.
I thought of a nest that a bird makes. A mother collects straw, uses her spit and/or whatever ingenious methods, and assembles what she hopes is a stable home for her chicks. Half of the nests I see are those that have fallen and lay destroyed on paved sidewalks. Maybe she should come of with a better device to secure the nest to the tree perhaps?
Climbing up the cliff making sure that I don’t slip I peak my head over to my right where there is a nest of Oh crap snakes!
It was the darkest of all whites. The smallest egg of them all. A brilliant shine. And one tiny little beak chipping it’s way into the freedom of his new world.
The bird was in the tree nesting her little chicks. I looked out the window and thought about how I wished when I went home my mom would nest me, but instead I walk home and find her on the couch drunk, I lift her and put her to bed, kiss her on the head, and do the nesting.
We were fishing on the dock. It was late at night. Probably around midnight about now. And for those days, way past my curfew. Over under the abandoned restaurant he found it, a tiny nest with one small baby bird egg. A hidden treasure. What small little precious gift of nature is waiting in there? Waiting to spread his wings and take to the skies. I envied the little bird. He had the chance to start over anew.
There is a little baby bird, he lives in a nest. his mommy left him. now he’s all alone. he’s sad. but he’ll be brave. he must learn to eat and fly on his own. he misses his momy. so once he’s old enough he’ll go and find her.
She entered the cave with trepidation. The walls appeared to be sweating, moving. She knew she had entered the nest. The breeding ground .
The little birds peeped out in fear when they didn’t see their mother. Three baby oriels filled a nest to capacity. Their mother returned with food for her young.
Castor and Pollux, I heard they’re both names for glowing plasma in the night, St. Elmo’s Fire or does it go by corposant, or torch, or a place where things come up sunny, or bright? Oh, fateful night, then. That which doesn’t breed discontent. Winter’s moon, I know her tune. A nest in a barren tree, lined with down, while silver beams drip upon the town. I know this trail all too well, forgive me if I should travel ’round it. My sight, all sight, is directed on the narrow. Hunting predator, seeking after prey who pray to the weakest gods to do their thinking for them. When a nest or garden of ideas should over flow the confines of such limiting lies and barriers.
Her own little nest to tend to. Each day was the same, a plan of mercilessly tending to her children and cleaning the little messes they made. Once they left home, well, her own nest was her little project. Mindless working each and every day with the same things in the same place each time.
It was no wonder that one day she would go crazy and the police would find her house in shambles, the once glistening trophy of a housewife’s ego.
We lay in the bed for what seemed like hours. our bodies entangled in the sheets like birds in a nest. waiting for our mother to come home. Only, she never would. We lay there quietly. Neither of us talking, asking if the other was okay, or disturbing the silence.
Lost deep and cozy, met into each other’s embrace. The small and the wriggling, the eager and hopeful. The well fed and the malnourished. They reach a crescendo and find themselves forever part of each other. One cuts short, the other to thrive in the gifted love or the other met in the nest, the home, the soul and the deepest places, lost to consciousness.
little birds
must fly one day
so out they go
pushed by their mother
into freedom
so sweet and pure
flying so high
into the sky
far away from
the baby bird home
their nest is left
far behind
in a world unknown
This is a place where birds live. Momma birds raise their baby birds. Some days my hair looks like a bird’s nest. When i see the word nest, i also think of Nestle, which reminds me of hot chocolate on snowy days. The word snow reminds me of Snow White and the Huntsmen, which is a terrible movie.
blah
coocoonature
love pattern
glam
this is the instinct of the expecting mother. now instead of climbing a career ladder or some such, it’s all about the softness of the baby blanket, the rockiness of the rocking chair, proper temperature control, nice smells emanating from the kitchen…
My brother has one of those bird houses that you can stick up aginst a window and it has a clear back so that you cansee inside. Also, Russian nesting dolls-or ma-trah-shka (spelling?) dolls. We have 2 from when my parents went to Russia to get Nickolai (aka my brother).
A nest is supposed to mean love, but right now it means hate. The twigs, the branches, they scar me, they make my skin scream. My feet are cold, cold and so are my hands. This place has nothing left. I can’t wait to leave, I think as I stare at the stars. When do I leave?
a nest is a place where birds go to create life. and in a way thats what people do too. women “nest” when they’re pregnant or expecting. simply put; a nest is a place to feel safe, feel secure, be warm, comfortable. its quite simple really.
a nest can also be scary, it can hold secrets that you dont want to unleash upon the world.
birds live in them. they are cozy to them its their home. they lat their eggs there. its safe. birds feed their babies in them. they love it is their home. it takes patience to biud it. birds can do it easily they care for their family having a safe place to live.
it’s a place where we rest. lay eggs and sleep at night. we make it with warm blankets and the dog always gets in first. a real pile is all you ever wanted but it is a bit crowded in real life.
I nest in my blankets as try to fall asleep. Oh sweet sleep, where are you?! Why are you leaving me NOW?! I have so much to escape and so much to hide from and so much to dream away in this nest of my blankets.
Inside mother yolk-
breath of new awaits,
flesh and bone basking in
the warmth of Spring.
Their oval world-
blue as sky, nurtures
until broken shell
reveals fragile feathered wings.
Eh.
Carefully i set down my egg. Ha. Why did I decide to call it that just now? I don’t know. I guess you could call it an egg. I watch over it. I keep it safe. But it will never hatch, and I will never be it’s mother.
“Sara!” Carson calls.
Gently I brush leaves over its soft oval edges. “Yeah”
There is an empty nest next to his home. He has fallen in love with a bird who will never come back. She used to sit by the window and preen while he slept. Now he pines in a way he never thought possible. She left and he leaves his heart in her nest- every morning.
I don’t want to be held captive any longer, the way the tiny baby birds are by their mother, kept cooped up in the nest while the rest of the world goes on outside. They can’t fly – they can’t unhide themselves, take pride in themselves on the wing just yet. Their mother has cast her net and kept them close, by forbidding freedom, and inhibiting the reaching of their hearts and minds. Don’t look to far away – you’ve got to keep yourself in, stay, stay – they hear her whisper every day.
a place where birds live.
made of twigs and things birds find.
where birds lay their eggs.
is in a tree or a safe place.
bird nest is full of tiny eggs lovely chicks see them in farms and you can hold them aw so cute. nest lik e helena bonham carters hair is like amy winehouse so big loike a bowl was shoved up there o my gosh wonder if it defies gravity why am i talking about this seriously onl
Simply the egg fell into the nest. It was a gentle and soft landing, as if that one life to be as the first snowflake of winter. And as it lay still in the sunshine, all the potential lay still as well. Waiting for its chance to break free.
a home. aplace for birds, but also not just birds. it is a place where i am safe and so are my secrets. my own private where the birds can come and sing to me. no one knows about it but me and the birds because no one has ever cared to ask.