I already spilled one story here. I thought there would be a new word but since Im already writing this…Im gonna finish it. My mind is so random though. Like. I imagine oil spill. Then milk, tea, coffee, stains, dirt, humans, civilization, people, stupid, mass, liquid, water, milk, tea, spill, oil spill again. I like those associations though.
i spilled hot chocolate on my brother. it was an accident. i didnt mean to. he started to cry for he is only a child. i tried to celan it off but he was kickingme
I spilled the lemonade all over my new blue dress. Puppy jumped into my lap and starting licking my knees with his sticky tongue. Mama got real mad cause Auntie Mandy sewed the dress all special for my birthday and I was supposed to wear the dress to the barbecue so she could see me wear it. Mama said you’re seven years old now Hannah, stop being a dumb klutz, no one likes one mama said. I guess she’s right cause even Puppy wont come to me unless I get food all over myself.
The coffee. His hands. I wince, nervous and fluttering. I reach out in a desperate attempt to made amends of the situation, but realizing I’m not helping, I begin fiddling around in the purse on my lap for some napkins. All of a sudden, he smiles at me, grabs my hand, and I look up, finally daring to meet his gaze head on. His eyes are a deep, rich brown, just like the color of the coffee I’ve gone and knocked all over him and his brand new pair of pants.
“It’s okay,” he says, laughing it off. “I’ve been burned more than this before, trust me.”
If we had never before looked upon the earth, but suddenly were born not as an infant, but full grown, and sat down in the midst of a summer meadow, would it not seem to us a radiant vision of impossible magic and unspeakable beauty? The spilling colors, the spilling shapes, the spilling songs and life of birds spilling through the airy way above all the sunlight. We would be overwhelmed with a glory unable to grasp, hardly believing that such incomprehensibles could be mere matter.
The words spilled from my mouth like a verbal hurricane, a natural disaster that I knew would inevitably get me into more trouble than I wanted to be in, but somehow I just couldn’t stop myself. Words flooded from my lips and tumbled into the open, bare for anybody within earshot. They could have whatever piece of me they wanted.
the milk was spilled. It was too late, no longer was the glass half full, It is empty now, nothing can be done but cry, cry tears that mix with the milk.
The milk spilled all over the table, spreading with a white film across the laminate surface and over the edge onto the floor. Nobody had the reflexes needed to save the carpet from milk destruction. It was done for.
I used to freak out. Like really freak out when I broke something. A plate, a glass, a lamp. It was ingrained in me from childhood. Breaking things is BAD. Then one day someone said it was okay. I didn’t need to cry about it, because it was just stuff. Just things. I didn’t get cut, did I? Good. That would have been something to cry about. But not spilled milk.
Forget the penguins for a moment, they are in the future, right now, there is a toxic sludge slowly gurgling forward from this cyber page, ready to engulf your consciousness… the penguins already suffered, but not before you read about it, or saw the pictures~ imagine the millions suffering, who’s pictures your government prevents you from seeing…
My life spilled out. 31 years of learnt behaviours, adopted beliefs, sysnap upon synap…the life I had created. I unlearnt “my life” & slowly became life. A shoot from the ground. The only visible proof of the great root system beneath.
Und wie ein See, der ausläuft am Ende aller Zeiten, läuft mein Herz aus und meine Gefühle versinken im Sand der weiten Wüste. Dort gedeiht ein Garten und zwischen jedem Blatt wächst Frieden. Der Wind hebt ihn auf und trägt ihn hinaus in die Welt.
I spilled the wine all over the table, carelessly knocking over my glass. The people around me all jumped up, gasping and shrieking. How could I have been so clumsy? This was a royal banquet, and I had just made a fool of myself.
“Mom!” roared Kenny. “Jessica spilled her juice again!”
“Again? But I only just – ”
“Refilled her cup thirty seconds ago, I know!”
Mrs. Sherwood scuttled over to the kitchen. Sure enough, Jessica was sitting on her stool, wide-eyed and mouth agape, as the purple stain continued to spread in an inkblot fashion on the carpet. Mrs. Sherwood sighed.
Everything stopped. Time didn’t matter anymore. What seems like an eternity was actually split second. She dropped the glass, which broke into millions of little pieces. Tea spilled all over the place. “No this can’t be true, this isn’t happening!” she whispered. But nothing was ever truer than this moment and the weight of it. Not even the milk on the floor, nor shards of glass. Were there even any?
He spilled it. All of it. His emotions. His thoughts on nuclear war. His guts. His milk. It was a rather messy time, but, after spilling it all, he realized, that maybe he hadn’t needed it all bottled up inside him after all. Maybe it was better for it to be in the world and not in his heart.
Boom. That was it. People were gone and all that happened to him was that he spilled his coffee all over his pants. But it didn’t make him wet. The opposite, actually…That made him ask this exact question, is this all only a dream? The nice kind of a dream. Then he realized that he never wanted to wake up.
the whole gram of coke on the carpet
But not on the carpet, like
in the carpet.
every little crum immediently sinked into the fibers of my plush bedroom carpet and im rubbing my face all over this dirty floor just to find a cheap thrill.
shits not cheap ya know.
I woke up that morning not knowing that I will spill my last cup of coffee in blink of time.
The muddy water running in rivers between the orange tiles.
My fingers in the air gasping for air.
Hot boiling water.
Blood rushing down my left hand.
The knife hidden from my sight as I reached for the cold water to ease the burning sensation that had paralyzed the my right arms.
Handicapped for the first and last time.
The stove spitting fire all around. my hair. my dress. the curtains of my heart.
Yes, this will be the last time I spill anything, anything but my broken heart.
“But blood was spilled. Your blood. My fathers blood…”
“I know my girl. But circumstances beign what they are-”
“He killed your brother!” I shouted, eyes threatening to spill over. “He’s a murderer.”
“And he is now your king.” he said, his voice dangerously and surprisingly loud, like the first boom of thunder across a previously clear summer sky. “I understand your feelings, Jesra. But there is naught that can be done.”
“King or no king, I WILL reap vengeance upon my fathers killer.” I vowed, kneeling before my uncle, sword in hand. “With or without your help.” I added, looking up to fix him with an unblinking stare.
He sighed. “Gods help me…but I wish you look. May the Lady always walk at your side.”
“And yours, uncle.” I said as I rose, striding towards the door. “And yours.”
My milk spilled on the ground. I couldn’t help but laugh at my unfortunate timing. I was late and there was no way that he would forgive me this time. I’m never going to get back to that place that we used to know.
I couldn’t stop talking. The thoughts in my head were spilling out of my mouth as if I no longer had control on what I wanted to say. What I wanted him to hear. I see the hurt flash through his eyes, quickly covered with his mask of indifference…and I regret it instantly.
The water spilled all over her. She didn’t see the mocking faces of the crowd that suddenly formed around her in the rush hour of the cafeteria. She only breathed the flour stash that came as quickly as the bottle of water. Humiliation was pouring from her in massive waves as the hot build of tears began, she wished she was invisible. Only she didn’t knew that one person who really saw her ran to her defense, the person she couldn’t think of that would come to her rescue. That was all missed by her running prom that place that would haunt her forever.
coffee, paint, milk, water
feelings
spill out over a page,
as i write, they flow free
free like birds, who spilled from the sky
they sit in birdbaths and they spill the water as they drink
he spilled everything. Usually he would hve been rather careful. fluid, almost musical in his movements, however today something was… off. In fact something seemed horribly wrong with the smooth and unusally complacant being.
couldnt you have watched out a bit more carefully. i just bought these yakisoba one minute ago and they were god damn expensive. you dont get this kind just around anywhere. its buckwheat. do you understand at all. buck. wheat. and they are delicious, i think this particular shop prepares them with ginger.
The secrets spilled across the pillows parting one head from the other, drowning the duo in a lifetime bond, which would never leave them parched because both now knew, that the other knew too much.
Don’t cry over that milk. Tears were spilled. Blood was spilled. I was spilling over with words. Spilled is almost like spelled but with an i instead of an e.
the bottled spilled milk on the couch. not a big deal.
for you is not, for me is life, bread, everything
wonder why?
no not at all
let the milk there, let it root.
I spilled that damn nail polish remover on my rug and the rug has spots in it that I can’t get out, what a goof on my part. I should have known better than.
As I lay my heart on the table, I noticed it had a little leak. Before I could look twice, its entire contents spilled all across the table, over the floor, spreading a multitude of colour, hurt, rage, love, and emotion into the sky like an unending rainbow, aware of its own existence.
At this night Mr. Flutterman went home earlier, he made sure to close his door and shut the curtains. He didn’t notice all the blood that was spilled over his kitchen window
I already spilled one story here. I thought there would be a new word but since Im already writing this…Im gonna finish it. My mind is so random though. Like. I imagine oil spill. Then milk, tea, coffee, stains, dirt, humans, civilization, people, stupid, mass, liquid, water, milk, tea, spill, oil spill again. I like those associations though.
you spilled your heart
over everything.
you couldn’t stop spilling,
and i couldn’t stop listening.
i spilled hot chocolate on my brother. it was an accident. i didnt mean to. he started to cry for he is only a child. i tried to celan it off but he was kickingme
The contents of her heart, lay strewn upon the table
she tried to gather them up, the best that she was able
meanwhile…
the contents of her purse were laying on the floor
she didn’t try to pick them up, she didn’t need them anymore.
I spilled the lemonade all over my new blue dress. Puppy jumped into my lap and starting licking my knees with his sticky tongue. Mama got real mad cause Auntie Mandy sewed the dress all special for my birthday and I was supposed to wear the dress to the barbecue so she could see me wear it. Mama said you’re seven years old now Hannah, stop being a dumb klutz, no one likes one mama said. I guess she’s right cause even Puppy wont come to me unless I get food all over myself.
The coffee. His hands. I wince, nervous and fluttering. I reach out in a desperate attempt to made amends of the situation, but realizing I’m not helping, I begin fiddling around in the purse on my lap for some napkins. All of a sudden, he smiles at me, grabs my hand, and I look up, finally daring to meet his gaze head on. His eyes are a deep, rich brown, just like the color of the coffee I’ve gone and knocked all over him and his brand new pair of pants.
“It’s okay,” he says, laughing it off. “I’ve been burned more than this before, trust me.”
If we had never before looked upon the earth, but suddenly were born not as an infant, but full grown, and sat down in the midst of a summer meadow, would it not seem to us a radiant vision of impossible magic and unspeakable beauty? The spilling colors, the spilling shapes, the spilling songs and life of birds spilling through the airy way above all the sunlight. We would be overwhelmed with a glory unable to grasp, hardly believing that such incomprehensibles could be mere matter.
The words spilled from my mouth like a verbal hurricane, a natural disaster that I knew would inevitably get me into more trouble than I wanted to be in, but somehow I just couldn’t stop myself. Words flooded from my lips and tumbled into the open, bare for anybody within earshot. They could have whatever piece of me they wanted.
the milk was spilled. It was too late, no longer was the glass half full, It is empty now, nothing can be done but cry, cry tears that mix with the milk.
The milk spilled all over the table, spreading with a white film across the laminate surface and over the edge onto the floor. Nobody had the reflexes needed to save the carpet from milk destruction. It was done for.
water blood food wet nothing left glass half empty glass half full confusion angry bewildered
I used to freak out. Like really freak out when I broke something. A plate, a glass, a lamp. It was ingrained in me from childhood. Breaking things is BAD. Then one day someone said it was okay. I didn’t need to cry about it, because it was just stuff. Just things. I didn’t get cut, did I? Good. That would have been something to cry about. But not spilled milk.
Forget the penguins for a moment, they are in the future, right now, there is a toxic sludge slowly gurgling forward from this cyber page, ready to engulf your consciousness… the penguins already suffered, but not before you read about it, or saw the pictures~ imagine the millions suffering, who’s pictures your government prevents you from seeing…
My life spilled out. 31 years of learnt behaviours, adopted beliefs, sysnap upon synap…the life I had created. I unlearnt “my life” & slowly became life. A shoot from the ground. The only visible proof of the great root system beneath.
Und wie ein See, der ausläuft am Ende aller Zeiten, läuft mein Herz aus und meine Gefühle versinken im Sand der weiten Wüste. Dort gedeiht ein Garten und zwischen jedem Blatt wächst Frieden. Der Wind hebt ihn auf und trägt ihn hinaus in die Welt.
I spilled the wine all over the table, carelessly knocking over my glass. The people around me all jumped up, gasping and shrieking. How could I have been so clumsy? This was a royal banquet, and I had just made a fool of myself.
“Mom!” roared Kenny. “Jessica spilled her juice again!”
“Again? But I only just – ”
“Refilled her cup thirty seconds ago, I know!”
Mrs. Sherwood scuttled over to the kitchen. Sure enough, Jessica was sitting on her stool, wide-eyed and mouth agape, as the purple stain continued to spread in an inkblot fashion on the carpet. Mrs. Sherwood sighed.
“Honey, what do you have to say for yourself?”
“I made a Rorschach test?” the girl replied.
Everything stopped. Time didn’t matter anymore. What seems like an eternity was actually split second. She dropped the glass, which broke into millions of little pieces. Tea spilled all over the place. “No this can’t be true, this isn’t happening!” she whispered. But nothing was ever truer than this moment and the weight of it. Not even the milk on the floor, nor shards of glass. Were there even any?
He spilled it. All of it. His emotions. His thoughts on nuclear war. His guts. His milk. It was a rather messy time, but, after spilling it all, he realized, that maybe he hadn’t needed it all bottled up inside him after all. Maybe it was better for it to be in the world and not in his heart.
Boom. That was it. People were gone and all that happened to him was that he spilled his coffee all over his pants. But it didn’t make him wet. The opposite, actually…That made him ask this exact question, is this all only a dream? The nice kind of a dream. Then he realized that he never wanted to wake up.
Those coffee stains. They can be quite attractive. On this sort of people, the coffee drinkers that dont take care of themselves too much.
the whole gram of coke on the carpet
But not on the carpet, like
in the carpet.
every little crum immediently sinked into the fibers of my plush bedroom carpet and im rubbing my face all over this dirty floor just to find a cheap thrill.
shits not cheap ya know.
I woke up that morning not knowing that I will spill my last cup of coffee in blink of time.
The muddy water running in rivers between the orange tiles.
My fingers in the air gasping for air.
Hot boiling water.
Blood rushing down my left hand.
The knife hidden from my sight as I reached for the cold water to ease the burning sensation that had paralyzed the my right arms.
Handicapped for the first and last time.
The stove spitting fire all around. my hair. my dress. the curtains of my heart.
Yes, this will be the last time I spill anything, anything but my broken heart.
I spilled my milk! Darn. I always do that. I am such a klutz. Whenever I have milk I always do that. So does everyone else I know.
“But blood was spilled. Your blood. My fathers blood…”
“I know my girl. But circumstances beign what they are-”
“He killed your brother!” I shouted, eyes threatening to spill over. “He’s a murderer.”
“And he is now your king.” he said, his voice dangerously and surprisingly loud, like the first boom of thunder across a previously clear summer sky. “I understand your feelings, Jesra. But there is naught that can be done.”
“King or no king, I WILL reap vengeance upon my fathers killer.” I vowed, kneeling before my uncle, sword in hand. “With or without your help.” I added, looking up to fix him with an unblinking stare.
He sighed. “Gods help me…but I wish you look. May the Lady always walk at your side.”
“And yours, uncle.” I said as I rose, striding towards the door. “And yours.”
My milk spilled on the ground. I couldn’t help but laugh at my unfortunate timing. I was late and there was no way that he would forgive me this time. I’m never going to get back to that place that we used to know.
I couldn’t stop talking. The thoughts in my head were spilling out of my mouth as if I no longer had control on what I wanted to say. What I wanted him to hear. I see the hurt flash through his eyes, quickly covered with his mask of indifference…and I regret it instantly.
The water spilled all over her. She didn’t see the mocking faces of the crowd that suddenly formed around her in the rush hour of the cafeteria. She only breathed the flour stash that came as quickly as the bottle of water. Humiliation was pouring from her in massive waves as the hot build of tears began, she wished she was invisible. Only she didn’t knew that one person who really saw her ran to her defense, the person she couldn’t think of that would come to her rescue. That was all missed by her running prom that place that would haunt her forever.
coffee, paint, milk, water
feelings
spill out over a page,
as i write, they flow free
free like birds, who spilled from the sky
they sit in birdbaths and they spill the water as they drink
he spilled everything. Usually he would hve been rather careful. fluid, almost musical in his movements, however today something was… off. In fact something seemed horribly wrong with the smooth and unusally complacant being.
couldnt you have watched out a bit more carefully. i just bought these yakisoba one minute ago and they were god damn expensive. you dont get this kind just around anywhere. its buckwheat. do you understand at all. buck. wheat. and they are delicious, i think this particular shop prepares them with ginger.
The words poured out of my mouth like a clean up on aisle six: a mess, an accident, a spill.
Her loneliness spilled from her eyes and sorrow fell from her lips in quivering soft sighs
The secrets spilled across the pillows parting one head from the other, drowning the duo in a lifetime bond, which would never leave them parched because both now knew, that the other knew too much.
Don’t cry over that milk. Tears were spilled. Blood was spilled. I was spilling over with words. Spilled is almost like spelled but with an i instead of an e.
the bottled spilled milk on the couch. not a big deal.
for you is not, for me is life, bread, everything
wonder why?
no not at all
let the milk there, let it root.
I spilled that damn nail polish remover on my rug and the rug has spots in it that I can’t get out, what a goof on my part. I should have known better than.
As I lay my heart on the table, I noticed it had a little leak. Before I could look twice, its entire contents spilled all across the table, over the floor, spreading a multitude of colour, hurt, rage, love, and emotion into the sky like an unending rainbow, aware of its own existence.
At this night Mr. Flutterman went home earlier, he made sure to close his door and shut the curtains. He didn’t notice all the blood that was spilled over his kitchen window
i spill my heart everywhere. does it ever stop?