i love the fall when there are piles of leaves lying about everywhere. first of all, they smell fantastic. secondly, who doesn’t love jumping in leaf piles? third, for all you pyromaniacs in the world, it’s super fun to set them on fire. that is all.
There it was the pile. Ever kid’s dream was to jump into this. The largest pile of leaves in the whole world. And now, after an hour of waiting in line, it was my turn to jump.
But I couldn’t. I was so high up. I was so afraid. No, I couldn’t jump.
So he pushed me. He shoved me right off, and I screamed as I plummeted downward towards my doom.
The pile of code-named post-its sat in the corner of the desk drawer, faded after years and years of neglect. Once, she had been adding to it regularly, sometimes twice a week, to her chagrin. Some had nothing more than a word, some a litany of tiny, cramped words. But the tenth was dog-eared and crumpled from being folded in her pocket for a month straight. On the side that chronicled her love, she had written “everything I could hope”. On the back, in humble, neat letters: afraid.
She should have realized that it would eventually come to this.
The hints were subtle at first—a smear of lipstick too dark to be her own, a spangled silver earring found wedged between the bed leg and wall. Until they weren’t. Until she found you and her, one of your old college tramps, doing unspeakable things on your bed.
So can you blame her for packing up her things to leave? She weeps as she cleans out the closet, looking at the growing stack of things you have ever given her over the years. Every gift, every promise of love, all of it lies. In one last burst of teary defiance, she twists off her ring and throws it hard against the floor, hoping it breaks the same way that you have broken her heart.
That meaningless little gold trinket is just one more thing to add to the pile of your abuses.
Of course she realizes this too late, but it seems that there were a lot of things she should have known.
The pile of papers laying on my dining room table are the years of labor I have put into a story worth telling. I’m not sure anyone but me really cares, but I can at least say I did it.
Leaves, I guess, but not just leaves, they’re metallic, not the sort of leaves one is used to finding in a pile. Iridescent, are you supposed to find leaves like that? I suppose I’m limiting the use of the word pile. What a shiny, burning pile.
piles…can me many things. is it weird that i think of mostly sad things?
of course, there’s at least one happy thing. volta’s pile is pretty famous. the ancient egyptians’ too.
Lately I have been a busy bee. I have tried to keep everything in accordance to the schedule but everything just keeps piling up on me… I plan for too many things – they pile up! and in return, everything IS literally piling up on my couch and everywhere around my home, looking as if a tornado has gone through! (Previously posted as “Jezebel”)
Lately I have been a busy bee. I have tried to keep everything in accordance to the schedule but everything just keeps piling up… I plan for too many things, and in return, everything IS literally piling up on my couch and home. The house looks as if a tornado has gone through!
The pile of stacked bug corpses covered the battlefield like anthills. It hurt just looking at the twisted, broken things. Not for the first time, Jimmy wished he was back home.
pile chunky bulbs and frowning dirt mud, half an indentation of my boot, razor sharp fingerprint of the rubber logo of a tree, razor sharp in the tilted, bumble of the pile under my door when I step out of my car.
Bring me that pile of sheets. Time to re-do the bed we’ve so passionately ambushed with our bodies. Don’t forget the pillows in the corner. They came in very handy when we needed the extra support.
Her mom hated that she always had a pile of dirty clothes on the floor, no matter how often she did laundry, but what her mom didn’t notice was that she also had a pile of textbooks, notebooks filled with her poetry and sketches, and, tucked safely under her dirty clothes and wrapped in a blood stained wash cloth, utility blades.
My clothes always end up in a pile on top of this wooden bench my father made. I say it’s a bench — actually, it’s a hinged hamper disguised as a bench. The pile of clothes should actually be inside it, not piled on top of it.
Die Pille ist klein und rund. Wenn man sie zerteilt und nochmal zerteilt und nochmal zerteilt, dann wird sie immer kleiner, solange bis nur noch Staubkörnchen bleiben, die lassen sich wieder und wieder zerteilen, bis sie Atome sind. Aus wie vielen Atomen besteht ein Sandkorn? Und wo genau ist die Wüste zuende?
I stare at the growing tower of clothes, toys and knick knacks from my childhood in the center of my bedroom. It finally hits me, I’m leaving. I’m moving out. My childhood is ending and a new adventure is beginning
A pile of shit was the first thing I thought of, when I read this word. May it hint to my life? Am I nor satisfied? Frustrated? Probably yes!
Anyway, you could grab a shovel and eliminate this pile of shit! Just take it and throw it into the next dustbin! Don’t hesitate! Just do it!
Cover it up! Yes! Now, you’re feeling better, aren’t you?
I never saw a pile that didn’t inspire -good or bad. Piles of things, piles of stuff – when a lot of stuff is in a pile, it changes the way we think about the stuff. The stuff becomes smetohohing else, something esoteric, maybe, or frightening, or beautiful.
There is a pile of information I have to take in for this last final. But this pile stands between me and graduation. Me and real life. Me and my future. Sometimes I’m not sure I wish this pile to disappear.. It’s the only thing I’ve known
I adjusted the piles of messy clothes, tired from working all day. Stupid kids coming in, trying on clothes they can’t afford then leaving them in a mess. I look up at my dozing coworker and roll my eyes. All night she’s done nothing but talked on her phone and slept at the cash register.
A pile of shattered twisted things.
Forgotten things.
Once loved,
Once left.
Are they treasure?
Or are they simply
Something left behind?
That depends on you,
My friend.
Honestly- that makes me sound like some immature teenager with the maturity of a 12 year old prepubescent child. But I’m serious. A pile of crap. That’s what I believed myself to be staring at.
I glanced up at my mother, stifling any gag that was triggered from the wretched smell. “You want me to eat this?”
Piling up, stacks and stacks of books and papers and cups of yesterday’s tea. A never-ending list of things to do, to fix, to get, to find, to achieve. Too many goals. Where is the time? The clock moves quickly and the work just keeps on piling, higher and higher until I cannot climb to the top anymore. It’s time to start digging from the middle, the bottom. A new pile grows of tasks incomplete, unfinished, obsolete. Time runs out.
I have so many piles of things in my room it’s becoming a bit ridiculous. My family and I are preparing to move and I have somewhat begun packing. Packing is extremely draining and it pulls on my emotional chords. I cannot believe how time flies…………
It’s a pile of shit and that’s all it is. Love! Huh. No one knows better than I that what you profess as love is nothing like that at all. No one can love without really knowing the person.
There is a pile of saved text messages that I have to sort through. Deciding which to keep and which to delete is the hardest part. There is two years of my life in that cell phone. Two years and thousands of messages from across each of the 24 hours in a day. 365 days of text messaging. They will remain in a pile in my box of ex-boyfriends.
God, it seemed like it only grew with each glance he graced it with and when he wasn’t looking it swelled and oozed and spilled around them all. No peeking, no peeking, it’ll see you and then it will all come peeing down upon your brittle mood, he thinks to himself. It isn’t like home, he thinks, this pile of gelatinous jocks engaged in tense camaraderie.
It keeps piling up. more and more, and you keep putting it off because you think you have all the time in the world. what is it? work? emotions? life?
what are you waiting for? what are all those piles for?
what if there’s no tomorow and all your piles are left untouched. words left unsaid.
what if.
The pile of clothes sat untouched on the floor. His mother couldn’t stand to be near them. His father hadn’t even touched the door. His sister cried ’cause they were they smelled like him. And he, he was laying on the pavement outdoors.
i love the fall when there are piles of leaves lying about everywhere. first of all, they smell fantastic. secondly, who doesn’t love jumping in leaf piles? third, for all you pyromaniacs in the world, it’s super fun to set them on fire. that is all.
And beside my elbow there is a leaf, thin veins tossed in a net around the surface, green as the grass or the sky or the sun on a nauseating day.
I throw it into the pan, waiting for it to cook.
There it was the pile. Ever kid’s dream was to jump into this. The largest pile of leaves in the whole world. And now, after an hour of waiting in line, it was my turn to jump.
But I couldn’t. I was so high up. I was so afraid. No, I couldn’t jump.
So he pushed me. He shoved me right off, and I screamed as I plummeted downward towards my doom.
The pile of code-named post-its sat in the corner of the desk drawer, faded after years and years of neglect. Once, she had been adding to it regularly, sometimes twice a week, to her chagrin. Some had nothing more than a word, some a litany of tiny, cramped words. But the tenth was dog-eared and crumpled from being folded in her pocket for a month straight. On the side that chronicled her love, she had written “everything I could hope”. On the back, in humble, neat letters: afraid.
pile of dung. that’s what i think about. yeah. pooo.
She should have realized that it would eventually come to this.
The hints were subtle at first—a smear of lipstick too dark to be her own, a spangled silver earring found wedged between the bed leg and wall. Until they weren’t. Until she found you and her, one of your old college tramps, doing unspeakable things on your bed.
So can you blame her for packing up her things to leave? She weeps as she cleans out the closet, looking at the growing stack of things you have ever given her over the years. Every gift, every promise of love, all of it lies. In one last burst of teary defiance, she twists off her ring and throws it hard against the floor, hoping it breaks the same way that you have broken her heart.
That meaningless little gold trinket is just one more thing to add to the pile of your abuses.
Of course she realizes this too late, but it seems that there were a lot of things she should have known.
The pile of papers laying on my dining room table are the years of labor I have put into a story worth telling. I’m not sure anyone but me really cares, but I can at least say I did it.
Oh shit…
Yeah I know.
We’re in this deep…
Yeah. I know.
And it’s only getting piled higher and deeper…
Yeah. I. Know.
pile on
pile up
gomer pile
pile lyle
pity pile
pile it
piley myrus
Leaves, I guess, but not just leaves, they’re metallic, not the sort of leaves one is used to finding in a pile. Iridescent, are you supposed to find leaves like that? I suppose I’m limiting the use of the word pile. What a shiny, burning pile.
piles…can me many things. is it weird that i think of mostly sad things?
of course, there’s at least one happy thing. volta’s pile is pretty famous. the ancient egyptians’ too.
Lately I have been a busy bee. I have tried to keep everything in accordance to the schedule but everything just keeps piling up on me… I plan for too many things – they pile up! and in return, everything IS literally piling up on my couch and everywhere around my home, looking as if a tornado has gone through! (Previously posted as “Jezebel”)
Lately I have been a busy bee. I have tried to keep everything in accordance to the schedule but everything just keeps piling up… I plan for too many things, and in return, everything IS literally piling up on my couch and home. The house looks as if a tornado has gone through!
The pile of stacked bug corpses covered the battlefield like anthills. It hurt just looking at the twisted, broken things. Not for the first time, Jimmy wished he was back home.
pile chunky bulbs and frowning dirt mud, half an indentation of my boot, razor sharp fingerprint of the rubber logo of a tree, razor sharp in the tilted, bumble of the pile under my door when I step out of my car.
Bring me that pile of sheets. Time to re-do the bed we’ve so passionately ambushed with our bodies. Don’t forget the pillows in the corner. They came in very handy when we needed the extra support.
Her mom hated that she always had a pile of dirty clothes on the floor, no matter how often she did laundry, but what her mom didn’t notice was that she also had a pile of textbooks, notebooks filled with her poetry and sketches, and, tucked safely under her dirty clothes and wrapped in a blood stained wash cloth, utility blades.
My clothes always end up in a pile on top of this wooden bench my father made. I say it’s a bench — actually, it’s a hinged hamper disguised as a bench. The pile of clothes should actually be inside it, not piled on top of it.
Die Pille ist klein und rund. Wenn man sie zerteilt und nochmal zerteilt und nochmal zerteilt, dann wird sie immer kleiner, solange bis nur noch Staubkörnchen bleiben, die lassen sich wieder und wieder zerteilen, bis sie Atome sind. Aus wie vielen Atomen besteht ein Sandkorn? Und wo genau ist die Wüste zuende?
I stare at the growing tower of clothes, toys and knick knacks from my childhood in the center of my bedroom. It finally hits me, I’m leaving. I’m moving out. My childhood is ending and a new adventure is beginning
A pile of shit was the first thing I thought of, when I read this word. May it hint to my life? Am I nor satisfied? Frustrated? Probably yes!
Anyway, you could grab a shovel and eliminate this pile of shit! Just take it and throw it into the next dustbin! Don’t hesitate! Just do it!
Cover it up! Yes! Now, you’re feeling better, aren’t you?
I piled up a pile
a pillar, pedestal
perfectly perpendicular
precisely pointed up up and away
I never saw a pile that didn’t inspire -good or bad. Piles of things, piles of stuff – when a lot of stuff is in a pile, it changes the way we think about the stuff. The stuff becomes smetohohing else, something esoteric, maybe, or frightening, or beautiful.
There is a pile of information I have to take in for this last final. But this pile stands between me and graduation. Me and real life. Me and my future. Sometimes I’m not sure I wish this pile to disappear.. It’s the only thing I’ve known
They have piled fragmented and trite impressions. They judged me against those.
I adjusted the piles of messy clothes, tired from working all day. Stupid kids coming in, trying on clothes they can’t afford then leaving them in a mess. I look up at my dozing coworker and roll my eyes. All night she’s done nothing but talked on her phone and slept at the cash register.
A pile of shattered twisted things.
Forgotten things.
Once loved,
Once left.
Are they treasure?
Or are they simply
Something left behind?
That depends on you,
My friend.
I saw a pile of poo.
I slipped and went it on my shoe.
I looked like a fool.
With a pile of poo
Smeared all over my shoe.
Little did i know, it was on my butt too.
Pile of crap.
Honestly- that makes me sound like some immature teenager with the maturity of a 12 year old prepubescent child. But I’m serious. A pile of crap. That’s what I believed myself to be staring at.
I glanced up at my mother, stifling any gag that was triggered from the wretched smell. “You want me to eat this?”
Piling up, stacks and stacks of books and papers and cups of yesterday’s tea. A never-ending list of things to do, to fix, to get, to find, to achieve. Too many goals. Where is the time? The clock moves quickly and the work just keeps on piling, higher and higher until I cannot climb to the top anymore. It’s time to start digging from the middle, the bottom. A new pile grows of tasks incomplete, unfinished, obsolete. Time runs out.
“What are you going to do with that pile of books?” Mom asked me as I sifted through the various papers lain across my desk.
“Build a bookshelf for them?”
She raised an eyebrow. “Do you even know how to build things?”
“Sure, Ma. Max does. Ricky does. I do, too.”
“And you’re sure you want to keep them?”
“Ma,” I protested, “I love reading. It’s the only thing that keeps me sane during my work hours.”
“Besides Lucy.”
“Yes, Ma,” I smiled. “Besides Lucy.”
I have so many piles of things in my room it’s becoming a bit ridiculous. My family and I are preparing to move and I have somewhat begun packing. Packing is extremely draining and it pulls on my emotional chords. I cannot believe how time flies…………
It’s a pile of shit and that’s all it is. Love! Huh. No one knows better than I that what you profess as love is nothing like that at all. No one can love without really knowing the person.
There is a pile of saved text messages that I have to sort through. Deciding which to keep and which to delete is the hardest part. There is two years of my life in that cell phone. Two years and thousands of messages from across each of the 24 hours in a day. 365 days of text messaging. They will remain in a pile in my box of ex-boyfriends.
money
sheet
shower
mirror
sea
energy
power
city
“Take it,” he said, shoving it forward with two hands. “Give to them and they won’t bother you again.”
It gleamed softly in the dim overhead light, golden.
Her lip curled. “You keep it.”
In the next second, he was slumped over it, turning every last coin red.
When I see a pile of clothes piled on the floor,
I sometimes choose to ignore it,
But my Daughter doesn’t,
and she doesn’t cease to show it.
God, it seemed like it only grew with each glance he graced it with and when he wasn’t looking it swelled and oozed and spilled around them all. No peeking, no peeking, it’ll see you and then it will all come peeing down upon your brittle mood, he thinks to himself. It isn’t like home, he thinks, this pile of gelatinous jocks engaged in tense camaraderie.
It keeps piling up. more and more, and you keep putting it off because you think you have all the time in the world. what is it? work? emotions? life?
what are you waiting for? what are all those piles for?
what if there’s no tomorow and all your piles are left untouched. words left unsaid.
what if.
The pile of clothes sat untouched on the floor. His mother couldn’t stand to be near them. His father hadn’t even touched the door. His sister cried ’cause they were they smelled like him. And he, he was laying on the pavement outdoors.