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Nothing to lose. Sometimes its too much when you think. Love. Pain. Disappointed. Abandoned. Left behind. She walked alone on this road called life. What could she do to keep others with her.

Posted By AnnaMarie On 09.23.2012 @ 3:28 pm

The railroad tracks weren’t meant to be my end.

I was supposed to be somebody important. Mama thought I was going to be the first female president of the United States of America. Papa wanted me to be a doctor. Me? Well, I wanted to be an actress.

But that all turned sour that day when I met the railroad tracks.

Most people probably think I committed suicide for some unknown reason. But it was an accident.

Posted By Annamarie On 07.03.2012 @ 4:01 pm

i dont know this reminds me of abuse for some reason it makes me think of people harrassing eachother maybe becasuse the words sounf the same to me but yeah

Posted By Annamarie On 05.31.2012 @ 5:51 pm

I am reminded of movies and art. Usually in movies there is some kind of gallery where there is art hanging. Usually it is things such as pictures and paintings and sculptures. I think about things like really abstract or the complete opposite like people.

Posted By Annamarie On 02.21.2012 @ 11:15 pm

I am sad about all of the obsolete things of my past: typewriters, rotary phones, cassette tapes and 8 tracks. How can wonderful inventions be abandoned? There is beauty in those things.

Posted By AnnaMarie On 04.12.2011 @ 8:39 pm

Every piece of fiction is a work of art; whether it be a story or a big, fat lie. You have to work at creating it, even if you’re such a compulsive liar that there is no need to think about it anymore.

Posted By Annamarie On 01.05.2011 @ 9:18 pm

to fly like a bird and or a plane. when you are in the air and are moving without use of legs. to use arms in order to move above the ground. flight bite might sight

Posted By Annamarie On 10.07.2008 @ 7:05 pm

my heart gallops inside this stupid little chest and everything is purpled at the edges as if the sun were setting inside of each of our lips our bellies have no plump rosy-ness and we cannot bend our fingers or close the curtains when night arrives

everyone lowers their faces and whisper yet none really know what they assume: that we are the dead girls and yes,if you’re wondering: we are the dead girls

Posted By annamarie On 11.10.2009 @ 5:15 pm

Words that you don’t know in english are conveyed through your eyes and hands. Your fingers are callused and they grip my heart, give it a squeeze for good measure. The eyes that I inherited are small and the color of storm clouds when it’s still early in the day, that breezy, sick gray. You curse at me in Italian and slap at my belly, say it needs to be bigger. Pouring wine liberally, pass me a glass, pass Mama a glass, pass yourself two. Live life to the fullest, I suppose, eh? egotistical Americans call you an idiot, I call you Nana

Posted By annamarie On 03.01.2010 @ 1:35 pm

the girls rewound and reordered them selves, fluffed their skirts and powdered their noses with haste and good taste. They recorded their pictures within the silvery frames and the color of their cheeks and how their bones composed themselves.

Posted By annamarie On 10.06.2009 @ 6:37 pm