The marker was green and yellow with all of these weired and little specks of crystallized rocks that were green like little emeralds and contained all of the makings of a false world for the mind of a six year old, but what was this supposed to mean?
A marker is a tool for self-expression. It’s also a place holder for letting us get back to our original path, a single breadcrumb for the way home. I Love combining a marker that writes with the breadcrumb to write my way home.
black think and fast never gonna go away .…she squeeks and squeaks the chuncky chisel tip over the plexiglass surface of the bus window…she didn’t care any more if they caught her if they saw just the stink and squeek of the marker is what she needed now.…the world on the other side of the window gradually disapearring gradually fading out to a grey streaky shadow…
The marker, they called it — it was really a gun, was slung over his shoulder. He called it Angel. The paint flew, bruises formed, and all I wanted to do was kill — metaphorically. We were violence. We were winning. We owned.
there is a tiny dot on this wall that is everything to me and if it weren’t for that tiny dot i would not exist. it tells me who i am and where i am and how i am in relation to it. god put the mark there, i am sure of it.
The marker was green and yellow with all of these weired and little specks of crystallized rocks that were green like little emeralds and contained all of the makings of a false world for the mind of a six year old, but what was this supposed to mean?
By j.skies on 01.01.1970
A marker is a tool for self-expression. It’s also a place holder for letting us get back to our original path, a single breadcrumb for the way home. I Love combining a marker that writes with the breadcrumb to write my way home.
By JulieWoodsOneWord on 01.01.1970
black think and fast never gonna go away .…she squeeks and squeaks the chuncky chisel tip over the plexiglass surface of the bus window…she didn’t care any more if they caught her if they saw just the stink and squeek of the marker is what she needed now.…the world on the other side of the window gradually disapearring gradually fading out to a grey streaky shadow…
By weezie on 01.01.1970
The marker, they called it — it was really a gun, was slung over his shoulder. He called it Angel. The paint flew, bruises formed, and all I wanted to do was kill — metaphorically. We were violence. We were winning. We owned.
By Tiphanie on 01.01.1970
i put down a marker but noone picked it up
By andythrobber on 04.17.2008
there is a tiny dot on this wall that is everything to me and if it weren’t for that tiny dot i would not exist. it tells me who i am and where i am and how i am in relation to it. god put the mark there, i am sure of it.
By invisibleland on 04.17.2008
i am being marked I am target, no on can catch me, i am invisible , all knowing all seeing
By David on 04.18.2008