Her pony tale bounced back and forth as she ran accross the field. This was her element. Running. Kicking. Playing. Soccer was her thing and this is what she loved. That signature pony tale is how everyone knew her.
A pony is a little horse. People think it’s cute. It can be a little vicious if you put your finger in it’s mouth. It can bite you in some ways. Just to tell you, it hurts! I couldn’t stand the bite of that pony.
Oh my gosh! When I was a child, I wanted a pony so badly. I thought that would be the coolest thing. I eventually did get a pony — a Shetland pony — in my early 20’s, and he was the most stubborn, obstinate creature on the planet. I didn’t keep him long. Sometimes, you DO have to be careful of what you ask for! LOL!
Już był kucyk.
Nienawidzę kiedy kucyk jest znów. No po prostu doprowadza mnie to do szału i mam ochotę wszytskim kucykom świata zrobić z dupy jesień kucykowego średniowiecza.
Na pohybel kucykowej bandzie kolorowych kucyków.
The pony was huge. I struggled to clamber up, but somehow I managed. I whacked it and off we galloped. My laughter filled the field along with the pony’s grunts. I’d never felt so free. Then – oh God why didn’t I put on stirrups or a saddle? – I fell downwards until my head hi the ground and my vision went black.
ponies. there’s nothing much to say about them. just that girls like them so much. but what good is a pony? it takes up space, craps everywhere, and needs so much love, and the investment you get out of it is really nothing. unless you actually eat pony meat.
When I was 8, I had a friend who boarded shetland ponies. She would give me a leg lift and I would hop on it’s wide back, my legs dangling over each side. I’d grab onto its mane, press with my heels, and go. It’s smell was heavy and dusty, like old leather and knotholed wood.
I’ve always wondered why I didn’t want a pony. Perhaps it was because I didn’t care for animals. They make more problems than the happiness they supposedly give. Wind flying through my hair for a few minutes? Manure, cleaning, pet bills and many other headaches are more likely.
Ponytail-swinging, romcom-loving, chocolate-eating girly girl. Nice to look at, nice to hold, but given the chance these innocent-looking creatures will stop your dreams cold.
Standing alone a field. The pink, plastic pony was lost amongst the long grass. She stared out, tried to find her voice to call out to the little girl who had left her.
“pony up, girl.” He lowered his head and stared over the cards at me. “It’s a man’s game.”
I wasn’t playing. I laid my hand down and stood up, giving him a solid stare. “You made the deal. Now it’s my turn.”
She could reach no higher than my hips, even when she stretched up her neck, searching for imagined treats with her up-curled lip. Beneath the fast sinking sun, an occasional breeze making the irises bounce against our ankles, I tore up a cleft of grass, offering it as if from my pocket. The shetland chewed for a while, fixing an intent gaze upon me, perhaps genuine indignance, that I must have baskets of apples somewhere in those pockets.
The pony wandered into the middle of the field – his main shining brightly, his ears at alert. he had a good life, and he knew it. He was the darling of the stable, as he was the pampered pet of the children of the house. A pet that had been brought in to help with grieving – and help he did! His star shines brightly!
The little Pony crossed the road as We were turning into my father’s farm the other day. He dashed across the road in front of us as we turned the corner and nearly got injured.
He rode over the rolling green hills dotted with beautiful wildflowers, but they formed just bits of color shooting at the edge of his vision, because he was concentrating too hard on just trying to stay on his pony.
He enticed her with the mention of a pony: woodland stables, carrots and sugar lumps. Hand in hand they walked away, the CCTV losing them the second he ensnared her up the lonely path. She’d always wanted a pony.
Her pony braids will unravel,
grazing the star lined freckles
at the small of her back.
Her fingers tug on yours,
Pleading for you to do it again.
Our papoose.
They are everywhere know … I’m afraid to go outside, what if pony is waiting there. Waiting with his devilish look in his eyes and dagger in his pocket.
Yeah, that vision looks quite interesting … Pony and dagger. I WANT TO SEE IT !
I was never one of those girls who wanted the pony. I didn’t see the need for one. Or the practicality behind owning one. I had no space to keep it, nothing to feed it with, and no time to take care of it. How would it live? I never thought about it.
I rode down the dirt road, blinking rapidly in an attempt to see past the tears blurring my eyes. Everything was going wrong; nothing was the same any more. All I knew was that I needed to escape. This would be the final time that I rode along this path; no more looking back.
I remember the envy I felt when I was 8 years old. When the little rich girls parents looked at her beaming standing at her bus stop, a pony’s reigns in there hands and a bow on it’s head. All I had wanted was a way to feed my brother that night. I stared holes through them from the bus window learning for the first time how unfair life could be.
Ponies at the fair, tied together and going nowhere. Who wants a ride? I did, but don’t anymore. Let them be. Just a pony and me, side by side walking away.
i once wanted a pony. then i grew up and came to know the ‘pony’ size beer – popular in the late 80’s at the beach.. ahhhhh i could use a pony right about now. snowy day in berlin and beer sounds about right.
“You got me a pony?!!!!” Sara asked. “YEEEE! A pony! A pony! a real live pony!” Her parents looked at each other, starting to rethink this idea. “No Sara, we didn’t get you a pony. We got the farm a horse, that you can ride sometimes. But it has to do work around the farm.”
cat
hat
cat in the hat
oxen
axe
death
amanda
kill
ill
old
cold
mold
sold
moth balls
house
attic
tic
kick
soccer
messi
with me
chris brown
brown sugar
sugar we’re
going down.
I couldn’t help but wonder if this ride was worth the torture. If this mind was all to blame. If the thoughts that I’d succumbed to, were like clouds I’d chosen, over solid ground for me to step.
The pony she rides through the desolation is white with black spots. Or maybe he’s black with a white swiss cheese pattern over top. Who knows, really, and frankly anymore who cares? No one is around to know that she took the pony from the corral at what was once the circus, no one to laugh at the way she trembled at the idea of riding a real horse, or blanched at the idea of how much she would need to find to feed one. To her, the old, tired but sturdy pony is an ideal choice, and really it’s kind of nice that there’s no one to tell her otherwise.
Florence’s thighs ache from riding her horse for hours that day. She loves her pet and she thinks back fondly on the day Carey had brought the pony home. They can’t have children, but they make due together, they make due with their pets.
Her pony tale bounced back and forth as she ran accross the field. This was her element. Running. Kicking. Playing. Soccer was her thing and this is what she loved. That signature pony tale is how everyone knew her.
One day there was a poor boy. He didn’t have any money. One day his dad went to work and he told his boss, please can you give us some free money.
A pony is a little horse. People think it’s cute. It can be a little vicious if you put your finger in it’s mouth. It can bite you in some ways. Just to tell you, it hurts! I couldn’t stand the bite of that pony.
beautiful majestic beast. tall. circus. chloe. flea market fair. carrot. poop. big poop. large poop. run. not a unicorn.
Oh my gosh! When I was a child, I wanted a pony so badly. I thought that would be the coolest thing. I eventually did get a pony — a Shetland pony — in my early 20’s, and he was the most stubborn, obstinate creature on the planet. I didn’t keep him long. Sometimes, you DO have to be careful of what you ask for! LOL!
Już był kucyk.
Nienawidzę kiedy kucyk jest znów. No po prostu doprowadza mnie to do szału i mam ochotę wszytskim kucykom świata zrobić z dupy jesień kucykowego średniowiecza.
Na pohybel kucykowej bandzie kolorowych kucyków.
The pony was huge. I struggled to clamber up, but somehow I managed. I whacked it and off we galloped. My laughter filled the field along with the pony’s grunts. I’d never felt so free. Then – oh God why didn’t I put on stirrups or a saddle? – I fell downwards until my head hi the ground and my vision went black.
I always dreamt i’d have one, and i liked riding a lot, even as a boy. Well, I think I will have a horse some day, they are pretty awesome.
short distance
ponies. there’s nothing much to say about them. just that girls like them so much. but what good is a pony? it takes up space, craps everywhere, and needs so much love, and the investment you get out of it is really nothing. unless you actually eat pony meat.
When I was 8, I had a friend who boarded shetland ponies. She would give me a leg lift and I would hop on it’s wide back, my legs dangling over each side. I’d grab onto its mane, press with my heels, and go. It’s smell was heavy and dusty, like old leather and knotholed wood.
I stood and hacked at her withering mane with a brush. Then, I brushed the rest of her body in smooth, wide circles. It was calming.
I’ve always wondered why I didn’t want a pony. Perhaps it was because I didn’t care for animals. They make more problems than the happiness they supposedly give. Wind flying through my hair for a few minutes? Manure, cleaning, pet bills and many other headaches are more likely.
Ponytail-swinging, romcom-loving, chocolate-eating girly girl. Nice to look at, nice to hold, but given the chance these innocent-looking creatures will stop your dreams cold.
Standing alone a field. The pink, plastic pony was lost amongst the long grass. She stared out, tried to find her voice to call out to the little girl who had left her.
I remember the days when a pony would be the best present
And sparkles were everything to me
Barbies were little friends
But it all went wrong so damn quick
I need to figure it out
Just for me
So I can breathe easier
I just wish people could understand the way I do,
But if people weren’t different what kind of world would we be living in?
A boring ass one…
“pony up, girl.” He lowered his head and stared over the cards at me. “It’s a man’s game.”
I wasn’t playing. I laid my hand down and stood up, giving him a solid stare. “You made the deal. Now it’s my turn.”
She could reach no higher than my hips, even when she stretched up her neck, searching for imagined treats with her up-curled lip. Beneath the fast sinking sun, an occasional breeze making the irises bounce against our ankles, I tore up a cleft of grass, offering it as if from my pocket. The shetland chewed for a while, fixing an intent gaze upon me, perhaps genuine indignance, that I must have baskets of apples somewhere in those pockets.
The pony wandered into the middle of the field – his main shining brightly, his ears at alert. he had a good life, and he knew it. He was the darling of the stable, as he was the pampered pet of the children of the house. A pet that had been brought in to help with grieving – and help he did! His star shines brightly!
The little Pony crossed the road as We were turning into my father’s farm the other day. He dashed across the road in front of us as we turned the corner and nearly got injured.
He rode over the rolling green hills dotted with beautiful wildflowers, but they formed just bits of color shooting at the edge of his vision, because he was concentrating too hard on just trying to stay on his pony.
He enticed her with the mention of a pony: woodland stables, carrots and sugar lumps. Hand in hand they walked away, the CCTV losing them the second he ensnared her up the lonely path. She’d always wanted a pony.
Her pony braids will unravel,
grazing the star lined freckles
at the small of her back.
Her fingers tug on yours,
Pleading for you to do it again.
Our papoose.
They are everywhere know … I’m afraid to go outside, what if pony is waiting there. Waiting with his devilish look in his eyes and dagger in his pocket.
Yeah, that vision looks quite interesting … Pony and dagger. I WANT TO SEE IT !
This is the cuteness for a litter Girl.
I was never one of those girls who wanted the pony. I didn’t see the need for one. Or the practicality behind owning one. I had no space to keep it, nothing to feed it with, and no time to take care of it. How would it live? I never thought about it.
I rode down the dirt road, blinking rapidly in an attempt to see past the tears blurring my eyes. Everything was going wrong; nothing was the same any more. All I knew was that I needed to escape. This would be the final time that I rode along this path; no more looking back.
I remember the envy I felt when I was 8 years old. When the little rich girls parents looked at her beaming standing at her bus stop, a pony’s reigns in there hands and a bow on it’s head. All I had wanted was a way to feed my brother that night. I stared holes through them from the bus window learning for the first time how unfair life could be.
He ga
Ponies at the fair, tied together and going nowhere. Who wants a ride? I did, but don’t anymore. Let them be. Just a pony and me, side by side walking away.
i once wanted a pony. then i grew up and came to know the ‘pony’ size beer – popular in the late 80’s at the beach.. ahhhhh i could use a pony right about now. snowy day in berlin and beer sounds about right.
“You got me a pony?!!!!” Sara asked. “YEEEE! A pony! A pony! a real live pony!” Her parents looked at each other, starting to rethink this idea. “No Sara, we didn’t get you a pony. We got the farm a horse, that you can ride sometimes. But it has to do work around the farm.”
cat
hat
cat in the hat
oxen
axe
death
amanda
kill
ill
old
cold
mold
sold
moth balls
house
attic
tic
kick
soccer
messi
with me
chris brown
brown sugar
sugar we’re
going down.
I wish I had a pony to ride on, I would ride on it proudly taking it to all places & having viewers watching me with jealous, hmmm, feels good :)
Always wanted one. I want some, once I am older, on some cute ranch in Wyoming. They will be named murphy and sal and henry and ericson.
Pony, not yet galloping, nearly immobile; one day it will run far away, but until then it will remain in a little girl’s dream.
I couldn’t help but wonder if this ride was worth the torture. If this mind was all to blame. If the thoughts that I’d succumbed to, were like clouds I’d chosen, over solid ground for me to step.
pony?
The pony she rides through the desolation is white with black spots. Or maybe he’s black with a white swiss cheese pattern over top. Who knows, really, and frankly anymore who cares? No one is around to know that she took the pony from the corral at what was once the circus, no one to laugh at the way she trembled at the idea of riding a real horse, or blanched at the idea of how much she would need to find to feed one. To her, the old, tired but sturdy pony is an ideal choice, and really it’s kind of nice that there’s no one to tell her otherwise.
Florence’s thighs ache from riding her horse for hours that day. She loves her pet and she thinks back fondly on the day Carey had brought the pony home. They can’t have children, but they make due together, they make due with their pets.