sitting in one. wood. metal. school. don’t wanna be in one. laptop and hat is on it. so boring. don’t wanna be typing on this desk. desktop. don’t wanna move. don’t wanna be here. Tired and just wanna sleep. Writing on the desk. Gum on the bottom of it. sitting here bored.
I sat staring at my desk, doing nothing. Nothing was coming and nothing was going to come either. It was just one of those days. I looked across at the others, who were – of course – all writing away as though they never even considered the problem. But not me.
my desk is more of a table, a place to hold my pocket’s contents, markers, garbage, my name scrawled like scratch marks across its surface, i can sit here and go a million places….
My desk is a mess
I must confess.
It has more debris
Than leaves on a tree.
Children add
To the mess that I had.
Time for spring cleaning!
(To the dumpster I’m leaning!)
I came back after a few days to find my desk scribbled and vandalized with hateful words. On the whiteboard they wrote: “go back to where you came from!”. Surrounding me were hostile glances and snarls. They rolled their eyes at me, purposely ignoring and pushing me around. One of them told me I should just stop going there because they didn’t like me at all, and it’s better off without me. I feigned ignorance, pretending not to hear and put on an expressionless mask but it only hurt me skin-deep. It wasn’t enough to impale into my heart because I’ve long gotten immune to the loneliness and hatred.
My desk is covered with papers of different kinds. Notes, sketches, assignments, bills, books I’m halfway through. It reminds me a little of my mind. Filled with a busy assortment of bits of everything from my life. I should really clear it.
I placed my coffee on the desk and picked up my paper and pencil and turned on my brain. I was ready to jump feet first into my story, ready to take a ride with what ever unfolded. Then, without warning a sudden rattle came from above they head.
In front of me, as always, sits a plain wooden desk. From morning, until a break for lunch. From after lunch, until before dinner. From then, until bedtime. In the face of deadlines and exams, projects and playtime, it remains the most quiet, obliging company.
Life in front of a desk. We should get married soon.
I am sitting at this desk at 5 #0 n the morning thinking what the hell am doing up? I haven’t slept all night, but somehting about being around this desk makes me feel useful, like I have a purpose, like I’m ding something. So I;ll just continue stitting here until something happens.
This desk.
Slumped, hand on hand on elbow on wood. Eyes drooping. Day one. Day one-thousand. Contaminated with paper, with work, with grown-up life.
A dire symbol of unavoidable adulthood.
She hid under the desk. It was nice down there. The chatter and noise of her classmates were distant and muted, and she could read her book in peace. She smiled at the thought of hiding under her desk until school was out and everybody would start looking for her.
Formal rows, neatly laid out like the squares of a chequerboard, ink blotted, scratched, time worn and battle hardened. School rooms have changed, plastic coated tables in discreet groups and wobbly plastic chairs. Everyone still feels the need to leave covert messages though.
I sat at the desk and thought about what to put down on the paper in front of me. It had been such a long time since I had seen paper I didn’t want to mar it with anything produced by my own hand. I was used to scrolling through data screens and using my fingertips to put down my thoughts. But this paper, it was sacred. White, crisp. I was too good for it. This paper did not deserve me ruining it and I did not deserve it’s pureness.
I sat at my desk, pretending to do schoolwork, moving the pen in aimless motions, drawing ink to the page, complete nonsense. I was distracted by the way she looked at me through the corner of her eye, as if i didn’t notice.
I love working at my desk, its my only place where I can fill the page with lots of stuff about stuff and more stuff. I live stuff. But I have too much stuff sometimes. Stuff stuff stuff.
desk–i don’t think i’ve ever had a desk i really liked. i mean, one tailored to my needs. my current desk is all right, old and with lots of drawers. but i want something else, something different that represents my present self.
Ask me what it’s like to live unappreciated. A plateau for idle motion while vicarious characters design their coal to the most pristine diamond roughs upon my structures core. Here I am, rugged and worn; baring gifts of future progression while my strength wears down to my soul. Soon I will be no more, another unappreciated desk to the learners of their love and continual discord.
My father’s study had always been a favourite place of mine. When I was little I would spend hours in there, memorized by the volumes of heavy books, the withered maps that hung upon the walls and the faint scent of cigars. But the desk had always been my favourite object in the room. Carved out of deep mahogany, strong and sturdy yet elegant. Subconsciously I think it reminded me of my father.
The desk lay infront of her. it was empty except for the pencil. she knew she was supposed to be here but didn’t know why. slowly she filled it with everything she needed and awaited the visitor. the meeting would go well, she said to herself. she gathered her courage and waited
student, school, teacher, work, where students and teachers sit in school
A desk is something you use for school or work that you put papers on or a computer and is something you do your work on.
something you sit at, school, sitting at school in a desk for 7 hours a day waiting on summertime
At school we have desk to work on!!! we also have desks at work to also work on. It wont let me post any comments.. ugh!! Again!!!!!
Words: Paper, Student, School, Learning, Chair
sitting in one. wood. metal. school. don’t wanna be in one. laptop and hat is on it. so boring. don’t wanna be typing on this desk. desktop. don’t wanna move. don’t wanna be here. Tired and just wanna sleep. Writing on the desk. Gum on the bottom of it. sitting here bored.
student, teacher, wood, table, something you can place things on.
Place to hold your papers, office, class, school, stores.
My desk is full of junk!!!!! it is full of all of my paperwork!!!!:/
Wood; desk; school; office;
student desk or a teacher desk.
My desk is clean. Is your desk clean? are you at your desk.
a desk is a form of table
A desk is a smooth flat platform that they use in schools mostly in the classrooms. A desk is a platform that you do your classroom work on.
The Desk
The desk is where things are put
notebooks, pencils, computers, and many other things….
Even people are on the desk sometime :D
i am sitting at my desk right now. . . . . where am i.
I hate desks with chairs attached ’cause you can’t scoot up or move back. Its really obnoxious.
what is a desk,everyone shall ask. well,a desk is a substance that you can put things on.
I sat staring at my desk, doing nothing. Nothing was coming and nothing was going to come either. It was just one of those days. I looked across at the others, who were – of course – all writing away as though they never even considered the problem. But not me.
my desk is more of a table, a place to hold my pocket’s contents, markers, garbage, my name scrawled like scratch marks across its surface, i can sit here and go a million places….
She sat at her desk across the hall from mine; but our eyes often met, as we looked for something more than paperwork, keyboards, and cubicles.
My desk is a mess
I must confess.
It has more debris
Than leaves on a tree.
Children add
To the mess that I had.
Time for spring cleaning!
(To the dumpster I’m leaning!)
I came back after a few days to find my desk scribbled and vandalized with hateful words. On the whiteboard they wrote: “go back to where you came from!”. Surrounding me were hostile glances and snarls. They rolled their eyes at me, purposely ignoring and pushing me around. One of them told me I should just stop going there because they didn’t like me at all, and it’s better off without me. I feigned ignorance, pretending not to hear and put on an expressionless mask but it only hurt me skin-deep. It wasn’t enough to impale into my heart because I’ve long gotten immune to the loneliness and hatred.
My desk is covered with papers of different kinds. Notes, sketches, assignments, bills, books I’m halfway through. It reminds me a little of my mind. Filled with a busy assortment of bits of everything from my life. I should really clear it.
top, work, wow no words for that can’t come up with anything better than this is it me or does this word suck? pfff, what to write what to
I placed my coffee on the desk and picked up my paper and pencil and turned on my brain. I was ready to jump feet first into my story, ready to take a ride with what ever unfolded. Then, without warning a sudden rattle came from above they head.
In front of me, as always, sits a plain wooden desk. From morning, until a break for lunch. From after lunch, until before dinner. From then, until bedtime. In the face of deadlines and exams, projects and playtime, it remains the most quiet, obliging company.
Life in front of a desk. We should get married soon.
I am sitting at this desk at 5 #0 n the morning thinking what the hell am doing up? I haven’t slept all night, but somehting about being around this desk makes me feel useful, like I have a purpose, like I’m ding something. So I;ll just continue stitting here until something happens.
This desk.
Slumped, hand on hand on elbow on wood. Eyes drooping. Day one. Day one-thousand. Contaminated with paper, with work, with grown-up life.
A dire symbol of unavoidable adulthood.
Deska to ciekae narzedzie. można ją podzielić na 8 kawalkow, mozna podzielic ja wzdłuż i wszerz.
She hid under the desk. It was nice down there. The chatter and noise of her classmates were distant and muted, and she could read her book in peace. She smiled at the thought of hiding under her desk until school was out and everybody would start looking for her.
At my desk
typing words
creating stories
that break hearts
sometimes make you laugh
Formal rows, neatly laid out like the squares of a chequerboard, ink blotted, scratched, time worn and battle hardened. School rooms have changed, plastic coated tables in discreet groups and wobbly plastic chairs. Everyone still feels the need to leave covert messages though.
I sat at the desk and thought about what to put down on the paper in front of me. It had been such a long time since I had seen paper I didn’t want to mar it with anything produced by my own hand. I was used to scrolling through data screens and using my fingertips to put down my thoughts. But this paper, it was sacred. White, crisp. I was too good for it. This paper did not deserve me ruining it and I did not deserve it’s pureness.
I sat at my desk, pretending to do schoolwork, moving the pen in aimless motions, drawing ink to the page, complete nonsense. I was distracted by the way she looked at me through the corner of her eye, as if i didn’t notice.
I love working at my desk, its my only place where I can fill the page with lots of stuff about stuff and more stuff. I live stuff. But I have too much stuff sometimes. Stuff stuff stuff.
desk–i don’t think i’ve ever had a desk i really liked. i mean, one tailored to my needs. my current desk is all right, old and with lots of drawers. but i want something else, something different that represents my present self.
Ask me what it’s like to live unappreciated. A plateau for idle motion while vicarious characters design their coal to the most pristine diamond roughs upon my structures core. Here I am, rugged and worn; baring gifts of future progression while my strength wears down to my soul. Soon I will be no more, another unappreciated desk to the learners of their love and continual discord.
My father’s study had always been a favourite place of mine. When I was little I would spend hours in there, memorized by the volumes of heavy books, the withered maps that hung upon the walls and the faint scent of cigars. But the desk had always been my favourite object in the room. Carved out of deep mahogany, strong and sturdy yet elegant. Subconsciously I think it reminded me of my father.
The desk lay infront of her. it was empty except for the pencil. she knew she was supposed to be here but didn’t know why. slowly she filled it with everything she needed and awaited the visitor. the meeting would go well, she said to herself. she gathered her courage and waited