There were many trails leading through the forest, and they would’ve been a joy to skip through, but I was too tired and I just stayed at home to play Monopoly. I lost all my money in the first fifteen minutes.
there were trails left behind—but all too faint, ortoo rough to take again—to get back to that place she once knew—and loved—and lived—–and grew. all thats left now is memory of that place with a fading trail leading from what she used to be.
I saw the trails. I had to follow it> It would be my firt chance to be famous! I would really want this because I think that I will neeed to find this new animal that I am looking for. Wow! I see it! it is like a green bunny! I like trains
I was going horse back riding tomorrow I was so exited we were going on this beautiful trail my a lake and a mountain it was going to be so much fun. then tomorrow came and I got up and got on the horse.
One of my most favorite things to do in solitude is hike the trails of the mountains in South Dakota. I am often reminded of the poem, Two Roads Diverged in a Yellow Wood… and often I do take the harder, less trodden path in life. The many trails I’ve come across in my life have all led me to where I am now, perhaps like a maze. I wonder what is at the end of the culmination of all of my trails (choices)? Perhaps there is no end, but just a new trail.
Ohara was finding this job to be less than satisfying. He had seen bad cases before, trails going cold that left him with nothing to do but apologise, and only one case where he had seriously screwed up. But this time, he had done nothing wrong, he had found the missing person, but it still left him feeling like a useless failure. Ohara was telling him that things were progressing, that in the eleven months since this nightmare had started, things were “getting better”. Dave nearly laughed when he said that, but had to hold back a screaming tirade of abuse as well. ‘Getting better!?” he asked Ohara incredulously. “Do you know what it’s like for me? Coming home to that empty house every night?”
He was scared. This was it. This is where he has to choose his path. There were 3 trails. He had to choose one. And whichever one he chose, he had to go along with it till the end. Alone. But… What if he chooses the wrong one…. What if he dies, while trying yo follow the path that was meant for him.
One of my most favorite things to do in solitude is hike the trails of the mountains in South Dakota. I am often reminded of the poem, Two Roads Diverged in a Yellow Wood… and often I do take the harder, less trodden path in life. The many trails I’ve come across in my life have all led me to where I am now, perhaps like a maze. I wonder what is at the end of the culmination of all of my trails (choices)? Perhaps there is no end, but just a new trail.
In the morning I pack my bags, get on my horse, and head down the trails.
I look up at the sky and wonder where I’ll end up this time.
I do not know where all the trails lead.
But that is part of the reason I travel down each one.
I love the mystery.
Trails are the way I live. The way we all live. We leave a trail of people’s lives we have touched. We leave a trail of things behind us when we get home from work or school. We leave a trail of things that let people see what makes us tick. Trails show where we have been and show us where to go and what steps to take that are the safest and best course of action. Trails are the essence of life.
The family were headed down the trail to oregon, and they had a long way to go. Finally after years of saving up their money, they were able to leave their wretched home at the price of going through horrible storms and encountering thugs, animals, and all the sorts.
She walked the trails aimlessly until finally choosing the one that would lead her to the destination that she believed was her true calling. Whether it was correct or not was yet to be seen.
That first sprint, from man made path to nature. The challenge is welcome. We speed through undergrowth, dodging stumps we know, narrowly avoiding new. Searching for fast, searching for danger. Stop, laughing at our friend slipping up. Nothings damaged, blood to wood floor.
That first pull, to nature from man made path. The ease is needed. We wander through the undergrowth, embracing the trees in front, opening periphery to new. It finds us, it finds us. Stop, expose everything, we open our chests. Nothings damaged, blood to wood floor.
You know I go down these trails that constantly lead to thoughts of you.. so close yet so far because you are invincible, untouchable, unable to find a pathway to you
If she thought and focused for a long time, she could just picture that old sky, vapor trails and pollution highlighting it. Never quite dark, never quite light. It was a very long time ago. It made her sad to think about it for too long. She missed those trails the most.
He looked down at the ground. He lost track of what he was doing and now he was lost completely. There was a trail here. Maybe he should head back, but he wasn’t sure where back was exactly. He wasn’t sure what he was going to find following the trail anyways.
Walking all these trails of life
the one that I’m on now is a long one, it’s isolated and I walk it alone
no friends or family accompany me on this journey, yet people stilled emend things of me
Im so exhausted all the time, begging for a safe place to rest for awhile
I feel as though I’m trying to fit my multiple versions of myself into boxes for other people’s pleasure
compassion for this person, taking a piece of my self and handing it off
quality time with this person, i slowly peel a piece of myself to give away again
expend effort on a project for another… breaking my bones down and handing them out
piece by piece limb my limb I give to others until there is nothing left of me but a hollow space
Mountain trails. Trial mix. Robert Frost’s trail. It always implies natural surroundings or a path of some sort. But there’s also treasure trails– trails to imaginative paradise.
i hate trails. i hate exercise. exercise makes me tires because i am lazy and fat because i eat too much mc donalds. chicken nuggets are bomb af. especially with buffalo sauce. that shit is fire. I guess i like trails that lead me to mc donalds. the end
Trails behind my house remind me of when I was young and I pretended that my best friend and I were spies. We hid hollow stones in the rock walls and passed secret messages and I think I fell in love with her by the creek.
I could see the trails left by Michael’s dogs, and followed them. They were following the scent of the man who escaped, and he was following the scent of his own fear. I wondered what the fear followed.
The trails all lead to no where, which was somewhere, but not where she wanted to go. They were full of hills, holes, roots, vines, and other obstacles and even after conquering each trial, she still ended up no where, so following trails already tread, she sat down and finally cried.
I wandered down the trail, taking in the lingering franqcgrance of bay and eucalyptus around me. The scent awoke something in me, beckoning at my soul like a muse.
The listless stranger trails behind a serpent’s coil of railroad workers. They toil over iron, hot and sharp, the rust crackling across their skin. Eventually, the laborers will be as stained and taut as the boards and nails they pound into angry submission. When the trains roll, they and their conductors will both be belching smoke. The listless stranger has coal in his pockets – he will not share it with anyone.
a trail of bittersweet tears mark an unnoticed path down his sleeping face. he will wake not knowing why. across the world, she will do the same, and neither will know what to do.
trails can lead to anywhere anyplace anytime they can be long or short lit or dark they can be filled with thorns and terror or maybe they will not be trails can be tracked by anyone if they leave their mark like stardust in their wake trails are what is left behind.
The door creaked open slowly.
She trudged through the doorway.
Blonde hair like a rat’s nest, bloodshot eyes, grime under her nails.
His salty scent was sprawled all over the blue cabin walls.
Where was he?
The lanterns lit up spots now and then in the darkness, where the men shouted in hoarse voices the names of the children who were missing. They had all apparently been together and hadn’t returned since going into the woods.
The trails lead into the fog I look back wondering if this was a good idea. I take a step backwards. “Coward” I tell myself. I take a step forward. Then another. You either go in now or you live wondering what might be on the otherside. I walk on into the fog.
In the quiet moments between sleep and wakefulness, she falls in love with her all over again.
It’s the way she trails her fingertips up and down her spine, leaving gooseflesh in their wake. The way her skin is soft and warm beneath her fingers even though they both know it will cool the moment she leaves the bed behind.
He laughed as he held his hand behind him waiting for me to grab it. “Let’s go down this one,” he said. “I snorted as I took his hand and pulled him to the left.
“Why do we need a trail?” I said, climbing the hill. “Let’s make our own path.” And I pulled him behind me, golden brown hair and coral colored sun dress flowing behind me. My hair was probably in his face, but I knew he wouldn’t mind. All that mattered was him and I.
You will leave many trails behind you in life. If they are good trails, people will follow. Where do you want to lead those that will follow your trail?
He’d left a trail of blood behind him and two brass keys lying on the mangy carpet, bloodstained and still warm. The bright red looked odd, stark against the pale flooring and walls, and the gold of the keys contrasted almost harshly.
There were many trails leading through the forest, and they would’ve been a joy to skip through, but I was too tired and I just stayed at home to play Monopoly. I lost all my money in the first fifteen minutes.
What’s up mates, how is thhe whole thing, and what you would like too say
regarding this post, in my view its actually awesomke designed for me.
there were trails left behind—but all too faint, ortoo rough to take again—to get back to that place she once knew—and loved—and lived—–and grew. all thats left now is memory of that place with a fading trail leading from what she used to be.
I saw the trails. I had to follow it> It would be my firt chance to be famous! I would really want this because I think that I will neeed to find this new animal that I am looking for. Wow! I see it! it is like a green bunny! I like trains
I was going horse back riding tomorrow I was so exited we were going on this beautiful trail my a lake and a mountain it was going to be so much fun. then tomorrow came and I got up and got on the horse.
One of my most favorite things to do in solitude is hike the trails of the mountains in South Dakota. I am often reminded of the poem, Two Roads Diverged in a Yellow Wood… and often I do take the harder, less trodden path in life. The many trails I’ve come across in my life have all led me to where I am now, perhaps like a maze. I wonder what is at the end of the culmination of all of my trails (choices)? Perhaps there is no end, but just a new trail.
Ohara was finding this job to be less than satisfying. He had seen bad cases before, trails going cold that left him with nothing to do but apologise, and only one case where he had seriously screwed up. But this time, he had done nothing wrong, he had found the missing person, but it still left him feeling like a useless failure. Ohara was telling him that things were progressing, that in the eleven months since this nightmare had started, things were “getting better”. Dave nearly laughed when he said that, but had to hold back a screaming tirade of abuse as well. ‘Getting better!?” he asked Ohara incredulously. “Do you know what it’s like for me? Coming home to that empty house every night?”
He was scared. This was it. This is where he has to choose his path. There were 3 trails. He had to choose one. And whichever one he chose, he had to go along with it till the end. Alone. But… What if he chooses the wrong one…. What if he dies, while trying yo follow the path that was meant for him.
One of my most favorite things to do in solitude is hike the trails of the mountains in South Dakota. I am often reminded of the poem, Two Roads Diverged in a Yellow Wood… and often I do take the harder, less trodden path in life. The many trails I’ve come across in my life have all led me to where I am now, perhaps like a maze. I wonder what is at the end of the culmination of all of my trails (choices)? Perhaps there is no end, but just a new trail.
In the morning I pack my bags, get on my horse, and head down the trails.
I look up at the sky and wonder where I’ll end up this time.
I do not know where all the trails lead.
But that is part of the reason I travel down each one.
I love the mystery.
I love troting bareback on my horse down a dusty ole trail. it is fun and peaceful. riding on trails is very relaxing.
Trails are the way I live. The way we all live. We leave a trail of people’s lives we have touched. We leave a trail of things behind us when we get home from work or school. We leave a trail of things that let people see what makes us tick. Trails show where we have been and show us where to go and what steps to take that are the safest and best course of action. Trails are the essence of life.
The family were headed down the trail to oregon, and they had a long way to go. Finally after years of saving up their money, they were able to leave their wretched home at the price of going through horrible storms and encountering thugs, animals, and all the sorts.
She walked the trails aimlessly until finally choosing the one that would lead her to the destination that she believed was her true calling. Whether it was correct or not was yet to be seen.
trails, snails, mails
nothing in common
trails, nails, fails
still …
wood, dark and spooky
screaming crying
silence
That first sprint, from man made path to nature. The challenge is welcome. We speed through undergrowth, dodging stumps we know, narrowly avoiding new. Searching for fast, searching for danger. Stop, laughing at our friend slipping up. Nothings damaged, blood to wood floor.
That first pull, to nature from man made path. The ease is needed. We wander through the undergrowth, embracing the trees in front, opening periphery to new. It finds us, it finds us. Stop, expose everything, we open our chests. Nothings damaged, blood to wood floor.
You know I go down these trails that constantly lead to thoughts of you.. so close yet so far because you are invincible, untouchable, unable to find a pathway to you
If she thought and focused for a long time, she could just picture that old sky, vapor trails and pollution highlighting it. Never quite dark, never quite light. It was a very long time ago. It made her sad to think about it for too long. She missed those trails the most.
He looked down at the ground. He lost track of what he was doing and now he was lost completely. There was a trail here. Maybe he should head back, but he wasn’t sure where back was exactly. He wasn’t sure what he was going to find following the trail anyways.
Walking all these trails of life
the one that I’m on now is a long one, it’s isolated and I walk it alone
no friends or family accompany me on this journey, yet people stilled emend things of me
Im so exhausted all the time, begging for a safe place to rest for awhile
I feel as though I’m trying to fit my multiple versions of myself into boxes for other people’s pleasure
compassion for this person, taking a piece of my self and handing it off
quality time with this person, i slowly peel a piece of myself to give away again
expend effort on a project for another… breaking my bones down and handing them out
piece by piece limb my limb I give to others until there is nothing left of me but a hollow space
Mountain trails. Trial mix. Robert Frost’s trail. It always implies natural surroundings or a path of some sort. But there’s also treasure trails– trails to imaginative paradise.
i hate trails. i hate exercise. exercise makes me tires because i am lazy and fat because i eat too much mc donalds. chicken nuggets are bomb af. especially with buffalo sauce. that shit is fire. I guess i like trails that lead me to mc donalds. the end
Trails behind my house remind me of when I was young and I pretended that my best friend and I were spies. We hid hollow stones in the rock walls and passed secret messages and I think I fell in love with her by the creek.
I could see the trails left by Michael’s dogs, and followed them. They were following the scent of the man who escaped, and he was following the scent of his own fear. I wondered what the fear followed.
The trails all lead to no where, which was somewhere, but not where she wanted to go. They were full of hills, holes, roots, vines, and other obstacles and even after conquering each trial, she still ended up no where, so following trails already tread, she sat down and finally cried.
They fell behind people, everywhere. There was something left behind, marking where they had gone and where they would go.
I wandered down the trail, taking in the lingering franqcgrance of bay and eucalyptus around me. The scent awoke something in me, beckoning at my soul like a muse.
The listless stranger trails behind a serpent’s coil of railroad workers. They toil over iron, hot and sharp, the rust crackling across their skin. Eventually, the laborers will be as stained and taut as the boards and nails they pound into angry submission. When the trains roll, they and their conductors will both be belching smoke. The listless stranger has coal in his pockets – he will not share it with anyone.
a trail of bittersweet tears mark an unnoticed path down his sleeping face. he will wake not knowing why. across the world, she will do the same, and neither will know what to do.
i leave trails of hot breath on the windows
and when you take a shower the steam illuminates
them as they are just
that shade
lighter
when i trace my spirals on your skin
you say i leave marks
and you can feel the path
my fingertips have wandered
as you watch me walk away
you leave zigzags on my back
and i can feel your pupils
criss-crossing
trails can lead to anywhere anyplace anytime they can be long or short lit or dark they can be filled with thorns and terror or maybe they will not be trails can be tracked by anyone if they leave their mark like stardust in their wake trails are what is left behind.
The door creaked open slowly.
She trudged through the doorway.
Blonde hair like a rat’s nest, bloodshot eyes, grime under her nails.
His salty scent was sprawled all over the blue cabin walls.
Where was he?
There is a path
That is winding
A loose thread
That needs some binding
Where is the beginning
And where is the end
If you are lost
Grab a hold of a friend
Chorus
These trails have all led here
And now we’re in the clear
But we can’t go back
We can’t go back
The lanterns lit up spots now and then in the darkness, where the men shouted in hoarse voices the names of the children who were missing. They had all apparently been together and hadn’t returned since going into the woods.
The trails lead into the fog I look back wondering if this was a good idea. I take a step backwards. “Coward” I tell myself. I take a step forward. Then another. You either go in now or you live wondering what might be on the otherside. I walk on into the fog.
In the quiet moments between sleep and wakefulness, she falls in love with her all over again.
It’s the way she trails her fingertips up and down her spine, leaving gooseflesh in their wake. The way her skin is soft and warm beneath her fingers even though they both know it will cool the moment she leaves the bed behind.
He laughed as he held his hand behind him waiting for me to grab it. “Let’s go down this one,” he said. “I snorted as I took his hand and pulled him to the left.
“Why do we need a trail?” I said, climbing the hill. “Let’s make our own path.” And I pulled him behind me, golden brown hair and coral colored sun dress flowing behind me. My hair was probably in his face, but I knew he wouldn’t mind. All that mattered was him and I.
You will leave many trails behind you in life. If they are good trails, people will follow. Where do you want to lead those that will follow your trail?
Your eyes are like pools, blue and clear surfaces spiraling down into something I’d barely touch with my hands let alone with my heart.
Yet I still do, and black swamp water coats my hands, green algae hanging off of each fingertip as they brush off golden sand.
He’d left a trail of blood behind him and two brass keys lying on the mangy carpet, bloodstained and still warm. The bright red looked odd, stark against the pale flooring and walls, and the gold of the keys contrasted almost harshly.