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
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.
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.
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.
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.
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 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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 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.
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 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 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!)
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….
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.
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.
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
By Edt on 04.16.2012
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.
By Justyna URL on 04.16.2012
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.
By artfulataraxia URL on 04.16.2012
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.
By kaorita on 04.16.2012
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.
By Billy URL on 04.16.2012
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.
By meliora URL on 04.16.2012
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.
By river URL on 04.16.2012
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.
By idiosyncratic eye URL on 04.16.2012
At my desk
typing words
creating stories
that break hearts
sometimes make you laugh
By Shail URL on 04.16.2012
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.
By Krospgnasker URL on 04.16.2012
Deska to ciekae narzedzie. można ją podzielić na 8 kawalkow, mozna podzielic ja wzdłuż i wszerz.
By 234 on 04.16.2012
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.
By Barber URL on 04.16.2012
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.
By Paul on 04.16.2012
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.
By Elizabeth on 04.16.2012
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.
By Crisnole URL on 04.16.2012
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
By c on 04.16.2012
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.
By Land of Dave URL on 04.16.2012
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.
By Zeoru on 04.16.2012
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!)
By Mary on 04.16.2012
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.
By Ahnnyeong haseyo URL on 04.16.2012
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….
By homer on 04.16.2012
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.
By zebra URL on 04.16.2012
what is a desk,everyone shall ask. well,a desk is a substance that you can put things on.
By loulou88888 URL on 04.16.2012
I hate desks with chairs attached ’cause you can’t scoot up or move back. Its really obnoxious.
By Bubbles on 04.16.2012
i am sitting at my desk right now. . . . . where am i.
By spiderwebb11 URL on 04.16.2012
The Desk
The desk is where things are put
notebooks, pencils, computers, and many other things….
Even people are on the desk sometime :D
By poseidon619 URL on 04.16.2012
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.
By Mario URL on 04.16.2012
a desk is a form of table
By zach URL on 04.16.2012
My desk is clean. Is your desk clean? are you at your desk.
By Nicholas Caruso URL on 04.16.2012
student desk or a teacher desk.
By Matt Ferguson on 04.16.2012
Wood; desk; school; office;
By Cameron on 04.16.2012
My desk is full of junk!!!!! it is full of all of my paperwork!!!!:/
By Ivy URL on 04.16.2012
Place to hold your papers, office, class, school, stores.
By Robert Rynard on 04.16.2012
student, teacher, wood, table, something you can place things on.
By Ashley on 04.16.2012
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.
By Kane URL on 04.16.2012
Words: Paper, Student, School, Learning, Chair
By Samantha Heath on 04.16.2012
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!!!!!
By heaf13 URL on 04.16.2012
something you sit at, school, sitting at school in a desk for 7 hours a day waiting on summertime
By josh patton on 04.16.2012
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.
By mak!:) URL on 04.16.2012
student, school, teacher, work, where students and teachers sit in school
By Taylor on 04.16.2012