I’ve got these stacks in my mind. Stacks of reasons, stacks of thoughts. I should probably try to organize them, but who’em I kidding? That’s never gonna happen. On the bright side though, all those stacks full of reasons concerning you…they’re slowly fading…and turning into stacks about someone else. Someone worth it.
we went down to the dusty stacks looking for a tome, preferably one written in some sort of distant ancient language nobody could read. we wanted to learn to read in a tongue everyone had forgotten, a language of secrets and lies and mysteries and above all the truths our language had lost.
of stacks of stacks of paper on the desk…birds nest. Strips of white. I delight in birds of a feather, the weather out the window I can barely see, you know me. I know freedom when I write.
I like pancake stacks
I want a stack of letters from friends
I want a stack of pictures of friends and family
I want to read the books in the book stacks
Lol I want to fall in hay stacks
I love snow stacks?
I have stacks of love for you
I hope you have stacks of
row upon row of empty shelves,
ghostly shadows of worn paperbacks,
tattered hardcovers,
well read and loved
too long ago
for dust to leave a trail behind.
row upon row of empty stories,
lives hidden between lines of crisp black ink,
yours for the living
when you get the chance.
and i miss her with every breath,
trying desperately to find the musky smell of faded paper
in this tired, dusty air;
i miss her with every empty space on the shelves,
where her books used to wait for us to come home
to sing us once upon a times.
i’ve never head of happily ever after.
two more red books on top of the book worm, who is splattered, and he’s all gooey all over the pavement, and a homeless man yells at it for causing the rapture, and throws life savers at it, the candy kind, he’s so pissed off, and i just want to go to get carmel appels with my grandma. I feel terrible.
Books piled high, like twirling staircases almost scraping the cracked ceiling. There was almost nothing else in the house other than books. Not one book case could be found. A chair might exist in the sea of pages, he wouldn’t know. Only the kitchen was less buried than the rest, if only for fire hazards and such.
i have stacks of memories piled up high in a corner of my mind.
i want to put them down on paper, and share them with the world and make a difference.
but i’m afraid.
so they sit and collect dust.
And the stacks and stacks of uselessness piled their way up to the brims of my mind.
I sat on the edge of the couch, wasting my time,
letting time billow by, as a forgotten prophecy,
that once there was life amongst all this debris,
But now there was none,
but at least we’ve had fun.
The end of creation has finally begun.
Stacks and stacks of late bills and unimportant junk mail. Things I hate to look through. Things that remind me of how long it’s been since I had a reason to be organized. The death of a loved one ended my life, why not my endless stacks and stacks of mail?
in between the stacks of books, i sit, watching. it’s the quietest on the third floor of the library, nobody goes up there anymore, except for the interesting people. everything interesting that has ever happened happened on the third floor, hidden between the stacks. i was so intently focused on observing the lives of others, that i never noticed a pair of green eyes studying my existence. until today.
Stacks of book, paper bound with coffee stains. Coffee stains from a mug with with a picture of London on it. London in the winter was so beautiful. And Dublin. Sweet with frost and cider. Sweet with romance.
Stacks of everything, everywhere, piling up and falling down and breaking down the world around into a beautiful gravity-written oblivion. Meteor showers abound from the papers piled up floor to ceiling, with office showers and comet-tail staple trails sailing down to the distant dusty floor
Well when I hear the words stacks I think of stacks of cash. You know like Im ballin with stacks of cash flow. Or stacks like my best friend katies moms haystacks. Danky. Stacks like I like my books stacks. Now Im thinking about pancakes. Way to go sister of mine. Talking about stacks and pancakes. Pancakes go in stacks
She sat in the middle of the floor, crossed her legs, and sat the book down on her lap. She was surrounded by stacks and stacks of books. Big books. Small books. Fiction. Nonfiction. Short stories. Novels. Biographies. Poetry. Classics. Personal favorites.
She sat among the stacks, and she read her book, and she was at peace.
stacks upon stacks as it were in the grandiose old rustic library atop an enormous hill dimly lit by the illumination of the full moon, from huxley to shakespeare and everything in between, insatiate the minds of many
Stacks and stacks of crates and boxes filled the warehouse, far taller than me line of sight could cross. I heard the faint echo of his footsteps as he ran down some aisle far from me. “Zachary?” I called, “Come back! You know I wasn’t going to hurt you!”
piles and piles of books. stacks of pancakes. stacks of clothes on racks. stacks of paper loading into a printer. stacks of boxes getting loaded into a truck.
stacks upon stack of books lying unopened and unread. the sunlight filters through a window and shines down on the dusty forgotten covers and no one cares. the library doors have ben closed and locked for years.
Stacks and stacks of bills lined the tables, floors, and bookshelves. It was obvious the place was barely staying afloat. How could they hope to keep their dad’s dream alive if they couldn’t even afford the simple things like rent and utilities. The overhead was just too devastating.
stacks and stacks of stacks on one word. how do i get another word other than stacks? i think i may blow my stack! is this what ONE WORD means? just one word and that is stacks?
Stacks up paper, piling up on my desk. They worry me. I know I should be doing something else in this very moment, but instead, I sit here, staring at the stacks of paper. Procrastination is taking over my life, and I suffocate, wishing for the day when the stacks of paper will finally disappear.
Stacks of books in a library, dusty musty smell and the pale blue light coming in the windows at [university]. I hid there in the library for a while, pretending to be a student, listening to bagpipe music and forgetting to pay my fines. Downstairs was the student lounge with poor padding on the seats and the worst acoustics in the history of forever. I had to listen to my iPod as I read or be blown away by the echos of my own breath.
a restaurant opened near us where you stack your own food. it’s called stacked. this made me think of it. stacks stacks and stacks of things. I like stacks of money. it really could change the world if we all had stacks of money. too bad we can’t stack world peace and love. that would be more useful.
stacks of books on them. they are coming. we arent prepared. its all over. we will be burried in the stacks of bodies of our fallen bretheren. its over…
Stacks. Quadstacks. Stacks of quadstacks, how I long to see you again. To taste you, to feel you. This is a drug I have quit indulging. My mind is clear but not my desires… When will I see you again? Not soon.
back in the stacks. you were supposed to be shelving books.
i was studying
or at least trying to.
however distracted by trying to fit you eyes into mine.
back in the stacks. today
we had our first kiss.
belonging where it always used to be.
back in the stacks
Stacks. You stake up books, you stack up people in your phone book. friends that you havet spoken too in quite a while. you stack up objects that dont mean as much to you as things that you wouldnt stack up.
There were large stacks of papers all over the office, as high as the ceiling. So much so, that the papers were hanging out the window overlooking New York City. But Harold didn’t pay the papers any mind. Harold just wanted to fly.
He spotted pigeons outside, free and flying. He wanted to be like them. Free.
As she laid down the stacks of money on her bed, she cried. She hated doing this type of work, but her family needed the money. She hated the way they touched her, the way they paid her. There was a knock at her door and her father said,”Where have you been?” She haistly threw the money under the bed and she said,”Come in.” He walked in the doorway, he looked tired. “Where have you been?” She quickly thought of an excuse. “I was out with my friends.”
The stacks of books were all around. The dust was settling as one was slammed shut. I jumped at the sound. I had been alone in my sanctuary. That was what the library was to me. It was my home. It was where I felt the safest These stacks of books were my family and they held my closest friends.
Stacks of Pringles. Stacks of cards. Stacks of poker chips. Stacks of bricks to make the columns of tall buildings. Stacks are all around us. Almost everything can be formed into a stack. What is your favorite type of stack? For me, I like stacks of coins!
I’ve got these stacks in my mind. Stacks of reasons, stacks of thoughts. I should probably try to organize them, but who’em I kidding? That’s never gonna happen. On the bright side though, all those stacks full of reasons concerning you…they’re slowly fading…and turning into stacks about someone else. Someone worth it.
we went down to the dusty stacks looking for a tome, preferably one written in some sort of distant ancient language nobody could read. we wanted to learn to read in a tongue everyone had forgotten, a language of secrets and lies and mysteries and above all the truths our language had lost.
of stacks of stacks of paper on the desk…birds nest. Strips of white. I delight in birds of a feather, the weather out the window I can barely see, you know me. I know freedom when I write.
“Last In First Out”.
I like pancake stacks
I want a stack of letters from friends
I want a stack of pictures of friends and family
I want to read the books in the book stacks
Lol I want to fall in hay stacks
I love snow stacks?
I have stacks of love for you
I hope you have stacks of
Stacks of unsigned papers were heaped column after column, on her desk to the ceiling.
row upon row of empty shelves,
ghostly shadows of worn paperbacks,
tattered hardcovers,
well read and loved
too long ago
for dust to leave a trail behind.
row upon row of empty stories,
lives hidden between lines of crisp black ink,
yours for the living
when you get the chance.
and i miss her with every breath,
trying desperately to find the musky smell of faded paper
in this tired, dusty air;
i miss her with every empty space on the shelves,
where her books used to wait for us to come home
to sing us once upon a times.
i’ve never head of happily ever after.
two more red books on top of the book worm, who is splattered, and he’s all gooey all over the pavement, and a homeless man yells at it for causing the rapture, and throws life savers at it, the candy kind, he’s so pissed off, and i just want to go to get carmel appels with my grandma. I feel terrible.
Man, I got stacks of stuff I want to do.
Using the words stacks sound strangely odd in that sentence. So does the use of the word in the phrase,” A stack of cards.”
Maybe it’s just me.
But I’d love to be able to stack books on top on one another to reach the sky and beyond.
Books piled high, like twirling staircases almost scraping the cracked ceiling. There was almost nothing else in the house other than books. Not one book case could be found. A chair might exist in the sea of pages, he wouldn’t know. Only the kitchen was less buried than the rest, if only for fire hazards and such.
Stacks of money? Boy do I wish I had those kind of stacks. Desperate college student writing here. PT school is robbing me blind.
i have stacks of memories piled up high in a corner of my mind.
i want to put them down on paper, and share them with the world and make a difference.
but i’m afraid.
so they sit and collect dust.
stacks of hay
like golden necklaces
or skipping ropes of girls
in school uniforms and plaits
bundled and controlled
not allowed to escape.
And the stacks and stacks of uselessness piled their way up to the brims of my mind.
I sat on the edge of the couch, wasting my time,
letting time billow by, as a forgotten prophecy,
that once there was life amongst all this debris,
But now there was none,
but at least we’ve had fun.
The end of creation has finally begun.
sometimes, because i cannot type faster.
there are stacks.
Stacks and stacks of late bills and unimportant junk mail. Things I hate to look through. Things that remind me of how long it’s been since I had a reason to be organized. The death of a loved one ended my life, why not my endless stacks and stacks of mail?
in between the stacks of books, i sit, watching. it’s the quietest on the third floor of the library, nobody goes up there anymore, except for the interesting people. everything interesting that has ever happened happened on the third floor, hidden between the stacks. i was so intently focused on observing the lives of others, that i never noticed a pair of green eyes studying my existence. until today.
The stacks of books filled her room
no they filled her house.
They made her feel something
each stack had a memory
or a feeling that she loved dearly
Stacks of book, paper bound with coffee stains. Coffee stains from a mug with with a picture of London on it. London in the winter was so beautiful. And Dublin. Sweet with frost and cider. Sweet with romance.
Stacks of everything, everywhere, piling up and falling down and breaking down the world around into a beautiful gravity-written oblivion. Meteor showers abound from the papers piled up floor to ceiling, with office showers and comet-tail staple trails sailing down to the distant dusty floor
Well when I hear the words stacks I think of stacks of cash. You know like Im ballin with stacks of cash flow. Or stacks like my best friend katies moms haystacks. Danky. Stacks like I like my books stacks. Now Im thinking about pancakes. Way to go sister of mine. Talking about stacks and pancakes. Pancakes go in stacks
She sat in the middle of the floor, crossed her legs, and sat the book down on her lap. She was surrounded by stacks and stacks of books. Big books. Small books. Fiction. Nonfiction. Short stories. Novels. Biographies. Poetry. Classics. Personal favorites.
She sat among the stacks, and she read her book, and she was at peace.
stacks upon stacks as it were in the grandiose old rustic library atop an enormous hill dimly lit by the illumination of the full moon, from huxley to shakespeare and everything in between, insatiate the minds of many
Stacks and stacks of crates and boxes filled the warehouse, far taller than me line of sight could cross. I heard the faint echo of his footsteps as he ran down some aisle far from me. “Zachary?” I called, “Come back! You know I wasn’t going to hurt you!”
piles and piles of books. stacks of pancakes. stacks of clothes on racks. stacks of paper loading into a printer. stacks of boxes getting loaded into a truck.
stacks upon stack of books lying unopened and unread. the sunlight filters through a window and shines down on the dusty forgotten covers and no one cares. the library doors have ben closed and locked for years.
Stacks and stacks of bills lined the tables, floors, and bookshelves. It was obvious the place was barely staying afloat. How could they hope to keep their dad’s dream alive if they couldn’t even afford the simple things like rent and utilities. The overhead was just too devastating.
and stacks of fears, worries and woes. finger biting and arm tugging, blurred vision while staring at the stacks of life.
stacks and stacks of stacks on one word. how do i get another word other than stacks? i think i may blow my stack! is this what ONE WORD means? just one word and that is stacks?
Stacks up paper, piling up on my desk. They worry me. I know I should be doing something else in this very moment, but instead, I sit here, staring at the stacks of paper. Procrastination is taking over my life, and I suffocate, wishing for the day when the stacks of paper will finally disappear.
Stacks of books in a library, dusty musty smell and the pale blue light coming in the windows at [university]. I hid there in the library for a while, pretending to be a student, listening to bagpipe music and forgetting to pay my fines. Downstairs was the student lounge with poor padding on the seats and the worst acoustics in the history of forever. I had to listen to my iPod as I read or be blown away by the echos of my own breath.
a restaurant opened near us where you stack your own food. it’s called stacked. this made me think of it. stacks stacks and stacks of things. I like stacks of money. it really could change the world if we all had stacks of money. too bad we can’t stack world peace and love. that would be more useful.
stacks of books on them. they are coming. we arent prepared. its all over. we will be burried in the stacks of bodies of our fallen bretheren. its over…
Stacks. Quadstacks. Stacks of quadstacks, how I long to see you again. To taste you, to feel you. This is a drug I have quit indulging. My mind is clear but not my desires… When will I see you again? Not soon.
back in the stacks. you were supposed to be shelving books.
i was studying
or at least trying to.
however distracted by trying to fit you eyes into mine.
back in the stacks. today
we had our first kiss.
belonging where it always used to be.
back in the stacks
Stacks. You stake up books, you stack up people in your phone book. friends that you havet spoken too in quite a while. you stack up objects that dont mean as much to you as things that you wouldnt stack up.
There were large stacks of papers all over the office, as high as the ceiling. So much so, that the papers were hanging out the window overlooking New York City. But Harold didn’t pay the papers any mind. Harold just wanted to fly.
He spotted pigeons outside, free and flying. He wanted to be like them. Free.
As she laid down the stacks of money on her bed, she cried. She hated doing this type of work, but her family needed the money. She hated the way they touched her, the way they paid her. There was a knock at her door and her father said,”Where have you been?” She haistly threw the money under the bed and she said,”Come in.” He walked in the doorway, he looked tired. “Where have you been?” She quickly thought of an excuse. “I was out with my friends.”
The stacks of books were all around. The dust was settling as one was slammed shut. I jumped at the sound. I had been alone in my sanctuary. That was what the library was to me. It was my home. It was where I felt the safest These stacks of books were my family and they held my closest friends.
Stacks of Pringles. Stacks of cards. Stacks of poker chips. Stacks of bricks to make the columns of tall buildings. Stacks are all around us. Almost everything can be formed into a stack. What is your favorite type of stack? For me, I like stacks of coins!