This whole world… can it be a cycle of events just circling round and round again?
Could my existence be a loophole of events and mishaps, happy and sad moments that just wait to be reincarnated again?
Could my existence be the repetition of someone else’s story? Is my existence merely a pre-set course that begins where it ends, without any way to set yourself free and liberate your mind?
No. I will break this cycle and take my own path in this world, a staircase up into the sky where my dreams are, and I will keep on climbing this never-ending staircase that will not take me back to the square one where I started from.
But every end signals a new beginning… This is the cycle of life. I guess that life, as a whole entity, is round after all, made up of the small linear segments that everyone builds in this world… and wherever someone’s story ends, a new story begins. But each person, on their own, does not work hard and then return to square one endlessly, and does not go in an endless cycle.
This whole world… can it be a cycle of events just circling round and round again?
Could my existence be a loophole of events and mishaps, happy and sad moments that just wait to be reincarnated again?
Could my existence be the repetition of someone else’s story? Is my existence merely a pre-set course that begins where it ends, without any way to set yourself free and liberate your mind?
No. I will break this cycle and take my own path in this world, a staircase up into the sky where my dreams are, and I will keep on climbing this never-ending staircase that will not take me back to the square one where I started from.
But every end signals a new beginning… This is the cycle of life. I guess that life, as a whole entity, is round after all, made up of the small linear segments that everyone builds in this world… and wherever someone’s story ends, a new story begins. But each person, on their own, does not work hard and then return to square one endlessly, and does not go in an endless cycle.
“Walk ’round that chair there,” he said.
“Dance ’round for me,” he said.
She did as she was told until a round of bullets rained down on him.
“Another round on me,” she said.
What to write when the mind is full of misinterpreted thoughts, looking like some sober sitting outside the door in a pitch of green marble. I have lost control over her new upcoming trademark with a sign of living and dying. I used to be a content writer once, rotten.
Going around and around and around. Stuck in this circle of procrastination amd unable to find an exit. Imagine if you can get out of this round bubble and routine. Don’t go out of the box, go out of the round box
confined like a steed in a merry-go-round
I exist for amusement; a sadist’s playground
in circles I run, a stake through my middle
the weight on my shoulders the most lovely riddle.
the clock spun round and round and round in a square shaped pattern of frivolity and happiness. it meant many things, for generations it had meant the world. now? now it simply meant the time had come and the boy was home. and what better thing could happen to parents but the homecoming of their young? his absence had not spared him the memories, but it would gain him the welcome back party.
The world was round. Something in which people didn’t expect. They thought the world was flat. Like someone’s hair or a dirt road. But they were wrong. The map held everything together. It’s yellow pages and brown ink.
Every time I come to the beginning, I realise that all I have done is go round. Be the beginning the strat of a new day, the start of a week, month or year. Is it just a fact of life that what has happened in the past will happen again in the present and will happen in the future. Round and round we go.
There’s only so much I can say about ’round’ at this point. There seems to be no round. There seems to be a maze, tetris, land mines (that don’t lead you in a circle unless you die and become not born again).
Being a ball. Enclosed. Warm. Like an “o.” My mouth follows the impulse. LIke a fish kiss. And punctuates on the “d.” It’s a fun word. Hufflepuff in nature.
She plays with the round ball in delight. She passes it to her sibling, but then protests once they have it. Her eyes light up with glee as the round object is passed back to her. She is enjoying this game, but she wants to be the leader. She will decide when she wants to pass, and will eagerly await when it is her turn to receive the ball again.
she was round. this made it difficult for her to walk, but she was great at rolling. this made the choice to be a steamroller all the more easy when she graduated high school.
“Hey, what’s that?” called a friend of Felix’s, Hermione.
Felix had no idea, and he signed that too her. Felix was mute, and he couldn’t talk. After the explosion, he lost that sense.
At first, he was appalled that someone would leave a stone lying around, littering the ground. It had been 90 years since nature has eliminated and all natural things were banned. Leaving a pebble on the ground was like lighting a building on fire.
Once the explosion happened 2 years ago, and Hermione was arrested, he ran away from the city, and stumbled upon New Alcatraz, when he freed the prisoners. Since Hermione was sympathetic of those who got injured in the explosion, since she accidentally caused it.
“Get down, Felix!” Hermione yelled at him, tackling him to the ground, causing him to throw up, he heard a sharp creak, and a boom. He was free falling, in the same part of the last explosion.
Horrible memories came back, and then he fell asleep.
For the rest of time, he could only remember his childhood. Him screaming as the kidnapper pulled him back. Of course, he escaped the next day. All well’s that ends well, except for when there are round objects involved.
well this isn’t much
but i just wanted to say
i love the you
the you that spins when you’re happy
the way you make
me spin round
when i’m sad
and when the world feels as though it has stopped
it is you that-
you make it go round
This whole world… can it be a cycle of events just circling round and round again?
Could my existence be a loophole of events and mishaps, happy and sad moments that just wait to be reincarnated again?
Could my existence be the repetition of someone else’s story? Is my existence merely a pre-set course that begins where it ends, without any way to set yourself free and liberate your mind?
No. I will break this cycle and take my own path in this world, a staircase up into the sky where my dreams are, and I will keep on climbing this never-ending staircase that will not take me back to the square one where I started from.
But every end signals a new beginning… This is the cycle of life. I guess that life, as a whole entity, is round after all, made up of the small linear segments that everyone builds in this world… and wherever someone’s story ends, a new story begins. But each person, on their own, does not work hard and then return to square one endlessly, and does not go in an endless cycle.
This whole world… can it be a cycle of events just circling round and round again?
Could my existence be a loophole of events and mishaps, happy and sad moments that just wait to be reincarnated again?
Could my existence be the repetition of someone else’s story? Is my existence merely a pre-set course that begins where it ends, without any way to set yourself free and liberate your mind?
No. I will break this cycle and take my own path in this world, a staircase up into the sky where my dreams are, and I will keep on climbing this never-ending staircase that will not take me back to the square one where I started from.
But every end signals a new beginning… This is the cycle of life. I guess that life, as a whole entity, is round after all, made up of the small linear segments that everyone builds in this world… and wherever someone’s story ends, a new story begins. But each person, on their own, does not work hard and then return to square one endlessly, and does not go in an endless cycle.
“Walk ’round that chair there,” he said.
“Dance ’round for me,” he said.
She did as she was told until a round of bullets rained down on him.
“Another round on me,” she said.
Why is the earth round? What purpose does it really serve not to be flat. Could we not live just as well on a flat?
Round an around in circles,
Round and round the earth
Back and forth, to and fro
Opposite poles and conflicting ideologies
Are there answers around the next bend?
Or will we just go round again?
Problems and solutions
And solutions that create problems
Hindsight and regret
Around again we go
Round the world,
One continuous line
Round again,
Again
Round and round we go
stop now, we all know
one two skip to a higher number, the song ends we have heard them all before.
What to write when the mind is full of misinterpreted thoughts, looking like some sober sitting outside the door in a pitch of green marble. I have lost control over her new upcoming trademark with a sign of living and dying. I used to be a content writer once, rotten.
Going around and around and around. Stuck in this circle of procrastination amd unable to find an exit. Imagine if you can get out of this round bubble and routine. Don’t go out of the box, go out of the round box
Round as the sun in the sky, smooth as a stone in a river, red as the blush on your face.
confined like a steed in a merry-go-round
I exist for amusement; a sadist’s playground
in circles I run, a stake through my middle
the weight on my shoulders the most lovely riddle.
Th round red ball rolled toward me and I bounced it back. It was shiny and big and firm. I took it in my hands and felt it’s firmness.
Tirondo thought that there was always enough to go around, but it wasn’t so for everything, and as it turned out, not for every one.
round is the shape.
we have round shape jar.
round circle
we can say in giving direction at the round corncer.
The greasy fat and plump man ate his weight in a melted cheese wrapper that he eventually discarded on the park ground one lat morning.
the clock spun round and round and round in a square shaped pattern of frivolity and happiness. it meant many things, for generations it had meant the world. now? now it simply meant the time had come and the boy was home. and what better thing could happen to parents but the homecoming of their young? his absence had not spared him the memories, but it would gain him the welcome back party.
The world was round. Something in which people didn’t expect. They thought the world was flat. Like someone’s hair or a dirt road. But they were wrong. The map held everything together. It’s yellow pages and brown ink.
round soft and supple, did i already say soft? my eyes keep circling. there is no end to this spiral.
Every time I come to the beginning, I realise that all I have done is go round. Be the beginning the strat of a new day, the start of a week, month or year. Is it just a fact of life that what has happened in the past will happen again in the present and will happen in the future. Round and round we go.
There’s only so much I can say about ’round’ at this point. There seems to be no round. There seems to be a maze, tetris, land mines (that don’t lead you in a circle unless you die and become not born again).
She goes round and around in her mind of the right thing to do, and she keeps coming back to the same thing,… him. It always comes back to him.
Being a ball. Enclosed. Warm. Like an “o.” My mouth follows the impulse. LIke a fish kiss. And punctuates on the “d.” It’s a fun word. Hufflepuff in nature.
She plays with the round ball in delight. She passes it to her sibling, but then protests once they have it. Her eyes light up with glee as the round object is passed back to her. She is enjoying this game, but she wants to be the leader. She will decide when she wants to pass, and will eagerly await when it is her turn to receive the ball again.
she was round. this made it difficult for her to walk, but she was great at rolling. this made the choice to be a steamroller all the more easy when she graduated high school.
It was round. That was all that Felix could tell.
“Hey, what’s that?” called a friend of Felix’s, Hermione.
Felix had no idea, and he signed that too her. Felix was mute, and he couldn’t talk. After the explosion, he lost that sense.
At first, he was appalled that someone would leave a stone lying around, littering the ground. It had been 90 years since nature has eliminated and all natural things were banned. Leaving a pebble on the ground was like lighting a building on fire.
Once the explosion happened 2 years ago, and Hermione was arrested, he ran away from the city, and stumbled upon New Alcatraz, when he freed the prisoners. Since Hermione was sympathetic of those who got injured in the explosion, since she accidentally caused it.
“Get down, Felix!” Hermione yelled at him, tackling him to the ground, causing him to throw up, he heard a sharp creak, and a boom. He was free falling, in the same part of the last explosion.
Horrible memories came back, and then he fell asleep.
For the rest of time, he could only remember his childhood. Him screaming as the kidnapper pulled him back. Of course, he escaped the next day. All well’s that ends well, except for when there are round objects involved.