the stone below his feet shattered an he fell through in to the pit below. Yes his stage was crumbling, he was crumbling and that remained of him was dust. Dust that blew high high, and people sniffed , snorted and got as fucking high as they had ever been, his music, hard rock
the rocker was seen jumoing into the crowd, but they threw rocks at him. poor guy wa fatally injured with bruises all over him and puncture marks on his sking, i wonder if he deserved it, i wonder if he cared but that was immaterial
rocker……i really don’t know what that is. it sounds like rock. ohhhhhhhhhhhh wait. that’s that thing that my grandma sits in and rocks. hahahahahaha i had a brain fart for a second there.
The lights went down. The guitarist struck a cord, the sound of the strings filled the room. Sweet smelling fog crept onto the stage. The singer stepped forward and took the standing microphone in both hands. The stage lights glared off his shaved bald head and dark sunglasses. He screamed and the crowed cheered.
She opened the window to let the stale air out of the room. The wind blew in stirring the curtains and she heard the creak of the floor as the old worn rocker moved gently in the breeze. Tears sprang to her eyes with the realization she would never sit in the chair again.
The glare of the lights was his calling signal. Showtime. They chanted his name like a slogan, and he answered their call. Bathing in the glory of his manufactured image. For a little while, he was God.
The name of the restaurant was Little Red Rocker. It was a little podunk place, family owned and operated. The town council of Mayville had repeatedly tried to get it shut down, but to no avail. They claimed the country methods used to operate the place were outdated and unhygienic; the silverware was covered in water spots, hand washed by the same man for the past 40 years. The dishwasher (also part owner), Gunnar McClaine, had little to say on this matter.
he was the best rocker. gals would pile up outside his dressing room and slip dirty letters under his doorstep. he loved the fame but one day–all was nought.
a robber stole his show, his guitar, ripping off the carefully covered history he had under his clever guise
The Rocker in our home when I was growing up was cherished and guarded well. It provide a place for rest and comfort for all of us in our home, and it was grand’s favorite piece of furniture.
i wish i was a punk rocker with flowers in my hair. To be a gypsy, live away from society and to be who I truly am- a lover of solitude, a reader, a rock music lover. Yh
I dont like rock, it sounds awful! It is just loud and bad and it really sucks ! I hate it so bad and i never listen to it. Rockers are cowards and i dont like them. They are evil and stupid and they shoot each other. they do not deserve to live
There once was an old lady who lived on the country side in a little barn with her little family. The lady had lived their all her life with her family, she would just sit and rock on a rocker near a window like her mother and her mother.
Music artist that has real good taste in music. Lots of concerts. Concer the world and the seven seas. Living the dream life with a bit of drugs probably. dying because of the drugs or beign shot is the end of you but whatever who cares. Lots of pretty man and woman falling for you crushing on you.
Rock, music, love It says it all
as a child, i had a rocker. – my parents were very concerned about my well being and they didn’t think that my governess would be up to rocking me to sleep adequately. so they took the logical next step and employed a professional: the rocker. he lived with us, and whenever needed, would come into my room, take me up on his arms and softly rock me until i was comforted.
Riots, life on the road, the bloody bottle of hennesy that seems to never end. All the pretty ladies all over them incredible places. Jumping from the stage into the arms of your fans. The good life. On tour. Life of a rocker.
Rage. The rage at the smallness of human minds was consuming her, and she rocked faster on the rocker, clicking the knitting needles together, waiting for the clicking to calm her down. It didn’t. Nothing would. She rocked faster.
The smallness of human minds. Judging and finding someone wanting. It didn’t matter for what reason. The rage was consuming her, and if she wasn’t careful she’d do something stupid. Like plunge the knitting needles into someone’s eye.
Hiding behind my thick makeup and my guitar. Hiding behind this crazed, stupid persona.
I scream into a microphone when really, I’m screaming at myself. At my circumstances. At the world. And then the crowd cheers, cheers at my misery, laughs at the stupid clown I have become.
i sit in a rocking chair with my pipe in hand. the vinyl player crackles and i take a deep breath and relax. the end of the day, i feel whole again, ready for the nighttime.
rocker… rocker… rocker… it brings so many things to mind, it is difficult to decide which one to write about :P i think the first one is obvious – a rock musician… then i also thought of a rocking chair for some reason… nice feeling that
He sits in that goddamn rocking chair, creaking back and forth slowly. She can’t fathom why he’d want to bring a rocking chair to school with him in the first place, but smiles all the same as he curls up under a blanket and loses himself completely in his book.
He was a rocker and everyone knew it. He was always in love with that guitar of his more so than anyone else in his life, including me. It made it impossible to talk to him sometimes because he was always so full of himself bragging about writing new lyrics and trying to share his music.
The rocker pushed and pulled as I breathed thick summer air and sipped hot lemonade. This was Texas at its best, wrapped in a screen porch and sweating, happy to scramble under the southern sun like an egg in a pan. Homemade ice cream waited behind the freezer door. Our horses tore grass from the field. This is what we bargained for. We came out on the best side of the deal.
jane made the rock group duck sauce to honor her boyfriend, who died of cancer. she liked the Ramones, as they represented to her a revolution, but really what they represented to her was her onwn rebellion against her parents. how boring. what was not boring was the
urgency always remembered
like a vast distance slowly fading
a reminder of the fog and haze
those dusty days
gently back and forth
rocking in rocker
wondering if it was all worth it.
He longs to tell her that he loves her. He wants so badly to get it off his chest. But he’s afraid she’ll laugh at the ludicrous sentiment before claiming he’s off his rocker. They are with other people leading different lives after all. And he feels all the time he just might be crazy. The constant wanting mingling with all the feelings of hate. He hates that he desires the forbidden. Life before her was just fine and less complicated, thanks. It turns to anger, his hate, maybe she thinks it’s all a game. And maybe she only plays along because it flatters her ego. Feeds her vanity. But deep down, in that place where shadows and doubts dwell, there’s a light beaming out at him. And that light is her love constantly beckoning. She does this in little ways. He can’t say it out loud now, but whenever he’s down, he remembers her beacons. Like totems they stack one upon the other, till he realizes once more her love is like a goddamn lighthouse. And in this moment he knows for a fact that she’s just as hurt by the forced distance.
The rocker slowly lulls the child into a peaceful state of homeostasis. As I see the girl quietly dreaming, I wonder if it’s only toddlers that can be lulled so easily to sleep by this. Maybe I should try falling asleep in a rocker, maybe it’ll cure the insomnia.
Long choppy dark hair, flying about in that particular way. The perfect rocker. The man of her dreams. A guitar in hand and a song on his lips. Just a few feet away, she can almost feel him. She screams as his eyes actually lock on hers. A moment, she swears it is a moment. A feeling, more than it really could be.
The monotonous afternoons were always brightened by her. Her not so steady hands would brush your hair out of your eyes. Sometimes she’d wrap you up in a warm embrace and it was as if the world melted away. She spent all the magical summer evenings on the porch crotcheting blankets no one would ever need.
The comfort of the rocker is in the cradle we once were. Its arms, our mothers.
Its soothing motion, her calming emotions. Its creaking, her voice cracking because of our cuteness. We can’t remember this, but we feel it in a way that sways and says I love you.
He played guitar, and I wept for all of the broken strings he mended without a second thought. He was too far gone, or perhaps that was me. I only hope I was as beautiful as the melodious tunes he plucked out.
There was once a rocker who thought he was dumb. But all his friends thought he was great. Everyday he would sit in front of the mirror and try to understand what people saw in him. One day he met a girl who tripped over his shoe at the local market. She was really unimpressed.
Rock is a rock.
Stone is a stone.
Rock-er. is a rock with an er.
Er is muttering.
Er is when you’re nervous.
Er is one of the biggest failures in the society today.
Rocker is also a rock-star.
Rocker can rock.
Rocker
An old woman, sitting on the porch of a country farm. She looking out into the distance at the old, majestic sun setting into the hills, rocking slowly, back and forth on her rocker as time passed without her having a care in the world
The room was in pieces. The mantle was hanging by a few splinters of wood and the contents of every drawer were scattered across the floor. A stack of muddied, crumpled papers lay haphazardly on top of the upended rocker.
She had come in behind me. “My god, what happened in here?” She saw the papers and gave a piercing shriek. “My sketches!”
the stone below his feet shattered an he fell through in to the pit below. Yes his stage was crumbling, he was crumbling and that remained of him was dust. Dust that blew high high, and people sniffed , snorted and got as fucking high as they had ever been, his music, hard rock
the rocker was seen jumoing into the crowd, but they threw rocks at him. poor guy wa fatally injured with bruises all over him and puncture marks on his sking, i wonder if he deserved it, i wonder if he cared but that was immaterial
rocker……i really don’t know what that is. it sounds like rock. ohhhhhhhhhhhh wait. that’s that thing that my grandma sits in and rocks. hahahahahaha i had a brain fart for a second there.
The lights went down. The guitarist struck a cord, the sound of the strings filled the room. Sweet smelling fog crept onto the stage. The singer stepped forward and took the standing microphone in both hands. The stage lights glared off his shaved bald head and dark sunglasses. He screamed and the crowed cheered.
She opened the window to let the stale air out of the room. The wind blew in stirring the curtains and she heard the creak of the floor as the old worn rocker moved gently in the breeze. Tears sprang to her eyes with the realization she would never sit in the chair again.
The glare of the lights was his calling signal. Showtime. They chanted his name like a slogan, and he answered their call. Bathing in the glory of his manufactured image. For a little while, he was God.
The name of the restaurant was Little Red Rocker. It was a little podunk place, family owned and operated. The town council of Mayville had repeatedly tried to get it shut down, but to no avail. They claimed the country methods used to operate the place were outdated and unhygienic; the silverware was covered in water spots, hand washed by the same man for the past 40 years. The dishwasher (also part owner), Gunnar McClaine, had little to say on this matter.
he was the best rocker. gals would pile up outside his dressing room and slip dirty letters under his doorstep. he loved the fame but one day–all was nought.
a robber stole his show, his guitar, ripping off the carefully covered history he had under his clever guise
Rocker. Stud. Cool. Dude. Piercings. Mohawks.
The Rocker in our home when I was growing up was cherished and guarded well. It provide a place for rest and comfort for all of us in our home, and it was grand’s favorite piece of furniture.
i wish i was a punk rocker with flowers in my hair. To be a gypsy, live away from society and to be who I truly am- a lover of solitude, a reader, a rock music lover. Yh
I dont like rock, it sounds awful! It is just loud and bad and it really sucks ! I hate it so bad and i never listen to it. Rockers are cowards and i dont like them. They are evil and stupid and they shoot each other. they do not deserve to live
She was crazy. Off her rocker. He knew it, and she didn’t deny it. That didn’t mean that they liked it, but they dealt with it.
There once was an old lady who lived on the country side in a little barn with her little family. The lady had lived their all her life with her family, she would just sit and rock on a rocker near a window like her mother and her mother.
Music artist that has real good taste in music. Lots of concerts. Concer the world and the seven seas. Living the dream life with a bit of drugs probably. dying because of the drugs or beign shot is the end of you but whatever who cares. Lots of pretty man and woman falling for you crushing on you.
Rock, music, love It says it all
as a child, i had a rocker. – my parents were very concerned about my well being and they didn’t think that my governess would be up to rocking me to sleep adequately. so they took the logical next step and employed a professional: the rocker. he lived with us, and whenever needed, would come into my room, take me up on his arms and softly rock me until i was comforted.
Riots, life on the road, the bloody bottle of hennesy that seems to never end. All the pretty ladies all over them incredible places. Jumping from the stage into the arms of your fans. The good life. On tour. Life of a rocker.
Rage. The rage at the smallness of human minds was consuming her, and she rocked faster on the rocker, clicking the knitting needles together, waiting for the clicking to calm her down. It didn’t. Nothing would. She rocked faster.
The smallness of human minds. Judging and finding someone wanting. It didn’t matter for what reason. The rage was consuming her, and if she wasn’t careful she’d do something stupid. Like plunge the knitting needles into someone’s eye.
I’m hiding.
Hiding behind my thick makeup and my guitar. Hiding behind this crazed, stupid persona.
I scream into a microphone when really, I’m screaming at myself. At my circumstances. At the world. And then the crowd cheers, cheers at my misery, laughs at the stupid clown I have become.
i sit in a rocking chair with my pipe in hand. the vinyl player crackles and i take a deep breath and relax. the end of the day, i feel whole again, ready for the nighttime.
rocker… rocker… rocker… it brings so many things to mind, it is difficult to decide which one to write about :P i think the first one is obvious – a rock musician… then i also thought of a rocking chair for some reason… nice feeling that
He sits in that goddamn rocking chair, creaking back and forth slowly. She can’t fathom why he’d want to bring a rocking chair to school with him in the first place, but smiles all the same as he curls up under a blanket and loses himself completely in his book.
He was a rocker and everyone knew it. He was always in love with that guitar of his more so than anyone else in his life, including me. It made it impossible to talk to him sometimes because he was always so full of himself bragging about writing new lyrics and trying to share his music.
The rocker pushed and pulled as I breathed thick summer air and sipped hot lemonade. This was Texas at its best, wrapped in a screen porch and sweating, happy to scramble under the southern sun like an egg in a pan. Homemade ice cream waited behind the freezer door. Our horses tore grass from the field. This is what we bargained for. We came out on the best side of the deal.
jane made the rock group duck sauce to honor her boyfriend, who died of cancer. she liked the Ramones, as they represented to her a revolution, but really what they represented to her was her onwn rebellion against her parents. how boring. what was not boring was the
urgency always remembered
like a vast distance slowly fading
a reminder of the fog and haze
those dusty days
gently back and forth
rocking in rocker
wondering if it was all worth it.
He longs to tell her that he loves her. He wants so badly to get it off his chest. But he’s afraid she’ll laugh at the ludicrous sentiment before claiming he’s off his rocker. They are with other people leading different lives after all. And he feels all the time he just might be crazy. The constant wanting mingling with all the feelings of hate. He hates that he desires the forbidden. Life before her was just fine and less complicated, thanks. It turns to anger, his hate, maybe she thinks it’s all a game. And maybe she only plays along because it flatters her ego. Feeds her vanity. But deep down, in that place where shadows and doubts dwell, there’s a light beaming out at him. And that light is her love constantly beckoning. She does this in little ways. He can’t say it out loud now, but whenever he’s down, he remembers her beacons. Like totems they stack one upon the other, till he realizes once more her love is like a goddamn lighthouse. And in this moment he knows for a fact that she’s just as hurt by the forced distance.
The rocker slowly lulls the child into a peaceful state of homeostasis. As I see the girl quietly dreaming, I wonder if it’s only toddlers that can be lulled so easily to sleep by this. Maybe I should try falling asleep in a rocker, maybe it’ll cure the insomnia.
I’m a rocker.
I sing, I dance, I rock.
No, I don’t give a shit about your opinion. I’m a rocker, and that’s it.
So much for a cliche.
Long choppy dark hair, flying about in that particular way. The perfect rocker. The man of her dreams. A guitar in hand and a song on his lips. Just a few feet away, she can almost feel him. She screams as his eyes actually lock on hers. A moment, she swears it is a moment. A feeling, more than it really could be.
The monotonous afternoons were always brightened by her. Her not so steady hands would brush your hair out of your eyes. Sometimes she’d wrap you up in a warm embrace and it was as if the world melted away. She spent all the magical summer evenings on the porch crotcheting blankets no one would ever need.
The comfort of the rocker is in the cradle we once were. Its arms, our mothers.
Its soothing motion, her calming emotions. Its creaking, her voice cracking because of our cuteness. We can’t remember this, but we feel it in a way that sways and says I love you.
He played guitar, and I wept for all of the broken strings he mended without a second thought. He was too far gone, or perhaps that was me. I only hope I was as beautiful as the melodious tunes he plucked out.
when i was a rocker back in the civil war i just sat on a front porcg n people would sit n fart on my face i was made from the rarest wo0od on earth
There was once a rocker who thought he was dumb. But all his friends thought he was great. Everyday he would sit in front of the mirror and try to understand what people saw in him. One day he met a girl who tripped over his shoe at the local market. She was really unimpressed.
Rock is a rock.
Stone is a stone.
Rock-er. is a rock with an er.
Er is muttering.
Er is when you’re nervous.
Er is one of the biggest failures in the society today.
Rocker is also a rock-star.
Rocker can rock.
Rocker
Rock is a rock,
Stone is a stone,
I just copied Jialin,
Forever alone.
A hot and sweaty room filled with all kinds of people screaming the same lyrics with different meanings.
An old woman, sitting on the porch of a country farm. She looking out into the distance at the old, majestic sun setting into the hills, rocking slowly, back and forth on her rocker as time passed without her having a care in the world
The room was in pieces. The mantle was hanging by a few splinters of wood and the contents of every drawer were scattered across the floor. A stack of muddied, crumpled papers lay haphazardly on top of the upended rocker.
She had come in behind me. “My god, what happened in here?” She saw the papers and gave a piercing shriek. “My sketches!”