I watch as my little sister pins a photograph to the wall of my old bedroom. I reach out to touch her, but, as always, my hand slides right through her. She doesn’t know I exist, I doubt she’ll ever know. I died the night she was born, but I still live on… pinned to this room forever more.
She was on pins and needles. She knew something intense was about to happen, she could feel it in every fiber of her body. She feels them under her feet, and she feels them in her heart, piercing, demanding.
Pins and needles travel down my spine as I walk cautiously through the underground parking structure. I rummage through my purse discreetly. Or at least trying to be discreet. I can hear my rummaging bouncing off the concrete walls. I’m a sitting duck. I feel hundreds of eyes watching me creep to my car. The pins, the needles, they’re starting to hurt. I find my car and all but run to it. I disable the alarm and it blares into the silence, announcing my presence. I fly into the drivers seat and almost slam the door on my leg. Then, silence. I’m home. I’m safe. I put my key in the ignition and drive out of the empty lot.
Jenna always felt as though she could do nothing right. She couldn’t sew, she couldn’t cook, she couldn’t even clean. All she seemed to be good for was yelling at, laughing at and calling names. But there was One who knew her true value.
Pins and needles under my skin,
They sink so deep they always win.
I can’t control the pain they cause,
No stitches band aids, casts or gauze.
Can stop the damage that they do,
The holder of the pins is you.
Pins covered my wall. Attached to the pins were dozens of photographs. Great memories. I stared at the photographs and smiled at the beautiful collage of memories God had given me. He will give me many more.
I pinned the flower to her hair. The beautiful yellow dandelion hung close to the strands of her blonde hair. The sun cast its rays upon her and it was a light. I simply watched and continued with my duties. The dandelion had captured the sunlight and it glowed on her head, so small but so much beauty.
needles and pins, sprinkled on my feet and crowding in bunches are my toes, somehow eager to jump and pinch my skin, little bugs whispering in excitement on my heels. they’re jittery and happy.
in a pin of devastation a life gone by, but really only half or less if I fly. I go thai and I never come back, for my destiny sits in the stars through the window of time, the time I sit on that flight over the world, she sees me and feels me, my comfort enormous. then we eat. and
there’s a purple pin on which I sing a song of love for a past summer fling. She was beautiful, kind of funny, but all in all, quite interesting. I ate an apple, and passed it to her, she sat, with her beauty, on the upturned pin. Ouch! Don’t slouch and you’ll be her king!
Pins and needles. I get them every time the phone rings. Someone died. Someone’s sick. Someone’s injured. Someone I love. I always assume it’s morose news. This is what loss has done to me.
healing, for me, is like having pins and needles.
its uncomfortable and painful.
sometimes i want to go back into my comfort zone, back to the familier hurt, and hide.
but i won’t.
i’ll run and stamp my feet and make a bunch of noise until the discomfort is gone and i can finally tell everyone im great without lying.
Pins and needles prick my mind. I am a road going into the distance. Each step I take is permanent, an infinite study of perspective in some shape-jagged art class. My leaves are my hair, and they fall to the path one by one, each moment covering me and destroying me at once. I’d bless a flame.
Tonight wouldn’t be difficult at all. Muzuni rubbed the bandages running down her shoulder, and then the ones that tightened themselves around the wrists. Combat was built on a stagnant discipline with involved the constant belief that there would still remain a plausible outcome for you in the end. In fact, the blow to the chin hadn’t felt like a concern, a possibly wouldn’t become one in the future. The pins pricked against the tips of her other good hand, leaving sharp little prods and then somehow vanishing. Sewing was another thing, maybe a tad too violent for a manual hobby, but nothing as explosive as practice with her brother.
WHY PINS AGAIN? I JUST WROTE ABOUT PINS. this is kind of annoying. again with the lack of punctuation. pins look like pins feel like pins taste like pins nom nom nom nom nom. people probably think i’m crazy (i swear i’m not) lawllinnn k this is so odd i need to stop. okayyyy byeeeee.
pins feel like pins and needles. wow i don’t know what i’m writing about. today i went downtown, i did not see any pins. i am quite sure that there must have been some needles lying around, however. i mean, it is downtown after all. ugh i have so much work to do but i HATE, absolutely, poistively hate doing work. why can’t i just take some adderall, oh yeah, i don’t have any dammit! blah well time is almost up right now and is oh wait, time is continuing for some reason despite the fact it was almost up. i also have not been using proper punctuation such as capitals or commas, i have been using periods, althoug not properly entirely fully functionally. what am i even talking about? not sure, ah too bad so sad. back to mandarin unfortunately
Once I stepped on a pin and I expected it to gush blood but all it did was hurt. I was younger then. Now I don’t put pins in my room. I’m smarter now.That’s all.
You caught me at a bad part of my life. I was pained with grief as if pins were pressed into my every feeling pore. How could I not be negative at that time? I had just lost two of the most genuine people I’ve ever had the pleasure to know and I couldn’t handle. You couldn’t handle it, and I realize that. I ask not for forgiveness, but to put it behind us and speak like those golden November days of yore.
At the bowling alley I struck good with my wife. We sat drinking coffee and she ripped off her top. The pins could it glass. We trueness played bowling, and knock out a few pins later ;)
Softly the wind lifts her hair from her shoulders,
a light rain hits her face.
Her steady gaze pierces the man in front of her,
‘if looks could kill…’
How do you fix what’s been broken so many times?
How many times must something fall apart until it shatters
beyond repair.
As the lies wind around their ankles,
whispering what they want to hear,
she realizes it is time.
Time to let go, even though she’ll die inside.
If she holds on it will not be any better,
so she whispers her final goodbyes and walks away
with tears forming in her eyes.
As they silently drop down her rosy cheeks,
her heart fills with a pain she’s never experienced before.
Pins. It’s as if someone has put a million
tiny
pins
into her aching heart.
How many kids won’t know which direction pins should face when they sew with a machine?
– How many kids will even sew with a machine?
It’s a disposable time. Something breaks or stains, get a new one. If it’s something very nice, pay someone else to fix it.
I wonder if there’ll be a time when that’s reversed again. When people will be more self reliant and dispose less of their things. When people will buy (and make) things to last.
I wonder if I, and some people from my generation (minus those who’ve crossed over to the dark side!) will be the last to think this way, or if someday people will laugh at the time when everyone did not.
There was no feeling in his left arm. Well, unless you counted pins and needles as feelings. It hurt, but beyond that? There was a pervasive numbness that scared him.
I get terrible pins and needles in my foot all the time because I sit with one of my legs tucked under the other : P
…That’s all I got today–I used up all my creativity on my last assignment of the semester.
Pins and needles, like pricks of light fire, shot up and down her spine when he leaned in to kiss her. She hadn’t been expecting such a forward move, not when they’d just met hours before. Going to the library never seemed like such a good idea in hindsight as it did now.
He pulled away, holding her cheek lightly with his hand, looking at her with his big brown eyes. She felt like she was going to drown in them. He kissed her again. It lingered on her lips like pins and needles.
In history. In memories. Not in cowardice, but in guts. In pins and needles. In hunger. Not in sleep, but in pain.
And most definitely not in words. Because although as hard as I try to keep words as a separate entity, the modern belief is that it is attached to emotion. That is where trouble begins.
Goodbye, creative writing. May you forever rest in the confines of my notebooks, never to be seen by the public eye ever again.
It’s like I’m standing on pins & needles. Every move I make seems to bring pain but I keep walking forward. There hasn’t been much going for me lately and it has been taking its toll.
Pins and needles. That’s all I feel at that point. I try to look around, but my vision has been replaced by the most blinding light I’ve ever seen. I try and move my arm, but I can’t. I’m uncertain if the bullet simply went through it, or tore it off completely. I lay there bleeding profusely, and all I can think about is how I wished I had had coffee cake for breakfast instead of eggs.
As the small gold and bronze pins clung for dear life to the many rolls and folds of her hair, Samantha jigged and polka-ed and promenaded all across the small pub where the older men whistled from behind their masks of accordions and fiddles. A young boy, Steven, played a small wooden piccolo and could not help but watch the blond and fair girl dance to the sound of Irish whims.
The doll had been left in the gutter, dirty, dog-chewed, and damp. Its miniature hairpins were holding the little hair-do together in a familiarly derelict style.
There were pins sticking out of her head. Slowly, gingerly, she removed them, plucking them out as if she were plucking out hair. The tubes in her arms could be left for later. Same for the heavy weights attached to her earlobes, the microphones that could hear changes as slight as an elevated heartbeat; anything to indicate she had woken up from her forbidden slumber. The first thing to do, though, was remove the pins. So, that’s what she set about doing.
I used the pins to hold the fabric in place. As I pin them together, again and again, this reminds me of how I could be pinned. Pinned to some life that I don’t want, fearing that I will never find my true self. Pinned to the fact that I may not get everything I think I need in this life.
i am waiting watching looking for what is next what will come what will i will to come come to pass pass by buy the time buy the dress dress it up up the ante… does it make sense? do you understand me? do you know me? do you want this? do you want me? i’m waiting on pins and needles, please don’t make me ask again..
The old woman cackled, grabbed my wrist with her filthy talons and beckoned me to sit on a fluffy pink cushion. She told me to wait. I looked around this dump, viewing the layers and layers of overlapping fabric in candy colors and the thick smoke that made my throat scream for mercy. The witch shuffled back into the room and presented me with a bejeweled box with a heavy lid. Opening it, I found a small doll with button eyes and a stitched mouth. She handed me some pins, and I plunged them into the voo doo doll.
All I do was wonder how I brought myself to resort to this.
“Haha let me go!” I laugh as we wrestle on the floor. He pins me down in the gentlest of ways, a sweet smile crosses his lips. I hear him whisper as his lips touch mine, “Oh yeah? Make me.”
Sink into the abyss, let each and ever dark though wrap around needle-thin arms, till the patchwork of all that shall be put into a loom and woven is as mismatched as the scars on skin, red against black.
I watch as my little sister pins a photograph to the wall of my old bedroom. I reach out to touch her, but, as always, my hand slides right through her. She doesn’t know I exist, I doubt she’ll ever know. I died the night she was born, but I still live on… pinned to this room forever more.
She was on pins and needles. She knew something intense was about to happen, she could feel it in every fiber of her body. She feels them under her feet, and she feels them in her heart, piercing, demanding.
Pins and needles travel down my spine as I walk cautiously through the underground parking structure. I rummage through my purse discreetly. Or at least trying to be discreet. I can hear my rummaging bouncing off the concrete walls. I’m a sitting duck. I feel hundreds of eyes watching me creep to my car. The pins, the needles, they’re starting to hurt. I find my car and all but run to it. I disable the alarm and it blares into the silence, announcing my presence. I fly into the drivers seat and almost slam the door on my leg. Then, silence. I’m home. I’m safe. I put my key in the ignition and drive out of the empty lot.
Jenna always felt as though she could do nothing right. She couldn’t sew, she couldn’t cook, she couldn’t even clean. All she seemed to be good for was yelling at, laughing at and calling names. But there was One who knew her true value.
and needles! hold up my hair. bowling. you knock one down and it all falls down.
Pins and needles under my skin,
They sink so deep they always win.
I can’t control the pain they cause,
No stitches band aids, casts or gauze.
Can stop the damage that they do,
The holder of the pins is you.
Pins covered my wall. Attached to the pins were dozens of photographs. Great memories. I stared at the photographs and smiled at the beautiful collage of memories God had given me. He will give me many more.
I pinned the flower to her hair. The beautiful yellow dandelion hung close to the strands of her blonde hair. The sun cast its rays upon her and it was a light. I simply watched and continued with my duties. The dandelion had captured the sunlight and it glowed on her head, so small but so much beauty.
needles and pins, sprinkled on my feet and crowding in bunches are my toes, somehow eager to jump and pinch my skin, little bugs whispering in excitement on my heels. they’re jittery and happy.
Pins and needles as I waited for results. no more, as I’ve moved on. Pins as rewards, deserved for their efforts.
in a pin of devastation a life gone by, but really only half or less if I fly. I go thai and I never come back, for my destiny sits in the stars through the window of time, the time I sit on that flight over the world, she sees me and feels me, my comfort enormous. then we eat. and
there’s a purple pin on which I sing a song of love for a past summer fling. She was beautiful, kind of funny, but all in all, quite interesting. I ate an apple, and passed it to her, she sat, with her beauty, on the upturned pin. Ouch! Don’t slouch and you’ll be her king!
Pins and needles. I get them every time the phone rings. Someone died. Someone’s sick. Someone’s injured. Someone I love. I always assume it’s morose news. This is what loss has done to me.
healing, for me, is like having pins and needles.
its uncomfortable and painful.
sometimes i want to go back into my comfort zone, back to the familier hurt, and hide.
but i won’t.
i’ll run and stamp my feet and make a bunch of noise until the discomfort is gone and i can finally tell everyone im great without lying.
Pins and needles prick my mind. I am a road going into the distance. Each step I take is permanent, an infinite study of perspective in some shape-jagged art class. My leaves are my hair, and they fall to the path one by one, each moment covering me and destroying me at once. I’d bless a flame.
Pins stick to the wall along with posters, newspapers, and cut outs from books. Its a way of putting up what is us and what we want to be.
Tonight wouldn’t be difficult at all. Muzuni rubbed the bandages running down her shoulder, and then the ones that tightened themselves around the wrists. Combat was built on a stagnant discipline with involved the constant belief that there would still remain a plausible outcome for you in the end. In fact, the blow to the chin hadn’t felt like a concern, a possibly wouldn’t become one in the future. The pins pricked against the tips of her other good hand, leaving sharp little prods and then somehow vanishing. Sewing was another thing, maybe a tad too violent for a manual hobby, but nothing as explosive as practice with her brother.
WHY PINS AGAIN? I JUST WROTE ABOUT PINS. this is kind of annoying. again with the lack of punctuation. pins look like pins feel like pins taste like pins nom nom nom nom nom. people probably think i’m crazy (i swear i’m not) lawllinnn k this is so odd i need to stop. okayyyy byeeeee.
pins feel like pins and needles. wow i don’t know what i’m writing about. today i went downtown, i did not see any pins. i am quite sure that there must have been some needles lying around, however. i mean, it is downtown after all. ugh i have so much work to do but i HATE, absolutely, poistively hate doing work. why can’t i just take some adderall, oh yeah, i don’t have any dammit! blah well time is almost up right now and is oh wait, time is continuing for some reason despite the fact it was almost up. i also have not been using proper punctuation such as capitals or commas, i have been using periods, althoug not properly entirely fully functionally. what am i even talking about? not sure, ah too bad so sad. back to mandarin unfortunately
Once I stepped on a pin and I expected it to gush blood but all it did was hurt. I was younger then. Now I don’t put pins in my room. I’m smarter now.That’s all.
You caught me at a bad part of my life. I was pained with grief as if pins were pressed into my every feeling pore. How could I not be negative at that time? I had just lost two of the most genuine people I’ve ever had the pleasure to know and I couldn’t handle. You couldn’t handle it, and I realize that. I ask not for forgiveness, but to put it behind us and speak like those golden November days of yore.
At the bowling alley I struck good with my wife. We sat drinking coffee and she ripped off her top. The pins could it glass. We trueness played bowling, and knock out a few pins later ;)
Softly the wind lifts her hair from her shoulders,
a light rain hits her face.
Her steady gaze pierces the man in front of her,
‘if looks could kill…’
How do you fix what’s been broken so many times?
How many times must something fall apart until it shatters
beyond repair.
As the lies wind around their ankles,
whispering what they want to hear,
she realizes it is time.
Time to let go, even though she’ll die inside.
If she holds on it will not be any better,
so she whispers her final goodbyes and walks away
with tears forming in her eyes.
As they silently drop down her rosy cheeks,
her heart fills with a pain she’s never experienced before.
Pins. It’s as if someone has put a million
tiny
pins
into her aching heart.
Pins
I’m thinking of Home Ec again…
How many kids won’t know which direction pins should face when they sew with a machine?
– How many kids will even sew with a machine?
It’s a disposable time. Something breaks or stains, get a new one. If it’s something very nice, pay someone else to fix it.
I wonder if there’ll be a time when that’s reversed again. When people will be more self reliant and dispose less of their things. When people will buy (and make) things to last.
I wonder if I, and some people from my generation (minus those who’ve crossed over to the dark side!) will be the last to think this way, or if someday people will laugh at the time when everyone did not.
… Ok, second thought:
♫ “Salt Peter…” ♫
♫ “Pins!” ♫
(1776)
There was no feeling in his left arm. Well, unless you counted pins and needles as feelings. It hurt, but beyond that? There was a pervasive numbness that scared him.
metal
important
postal
wood
wall
post
photo
card
color
small
hurt
ideas
cartoons
cuote
I get terrible pins and needles in my foot all the time because I sit with one of my legs tucked under the other : P
…That’s all I got today–I used up all my creativity on my last assignment of the semester.
head long straight sharp hit pounce dart. Hooked on your cavities and a nucleus of me surrounded scythe.
Pins and needles, like pricks of light fire, shot up and down her spine when he leaned in to kiss her. She hadn’t been expecting such a forward move, not when they’d just met hours before. Going to the library never seemed like such a good idea in hindsight as it did now.
He pulled away, holding her cheek lightly with his hand, looking at her with his big brown eyes. She felt like she was going to drown in them. He kissed her again. It lingered on her lips like pins and needles.
I’m going to go drown myself.
In history. In memories. Not in cowardice, but in guts. In pins and needles. In hunger. Not in sleep, but in pain.
And most definitely not in words. Because although as hard as I try to keep words as a separate entity, the modern belief is that it is attached to emotion. That is where trouble begins.
Goodbye, creative writing. May you forever rest in the confines of my notebooks, never to be seen by the public eye ever again.
It’s like I’m standing on pins & needles. Every move I make seems to bring pain but I keep walking forward. There hasn’t been much going for me lately and it has been taking its toll.
Pins and needles. That’s all I feel at that point. I try to look around, but my vision has been replaced by the most blinding light I’ve ever seen. I try and move my arm, but I can’t. I’m uncertain if the bullet simply went through it, or tore it off completely. I lay there bleeding profusely, and all I can think about is how I wished I had had coffee cake for breakfast instead of eggs.
As the small gold and bronze pins clung for dear life to the many rolls and folds of her hair, Samantha jigged and polka-ed and promenaded all across the small pub where the older men whistled from behind their masks of accordions and fiddles. A young boy, Steven, played a small wooden piccolo and could not help but watch the blond and fair girl dance to the sound of Irish whims.
The doll had been left in the gutter, dirty, dog-chewed, and damp. Its miniature hairpins were holding the little hair-do together in a familiarly derelict style.
There were pins sticking out of her head. Slowly, gingerly, she removed them, plucking them out as if she were plucking out hair. The tubes in her arms could be left for later. Same for the heavy weights attached to her earlobes, the microphones that could hear changes as slight as an elevated heartbeat; anything to indicate she had woken up from her forbidden slumber. The first thing to do, though, was remove the pins. So, that’s what she set about doing.
I used the pins to hold the fabric in place. As I pin them together, again and again, this reminds me of how I could be pinned. Pinned to some life that I don’t want, fearing that I will never find my true self. Pinned to the fact that I may not get everything I think I need in this life.
i am waiting watching looking for what is next what will come what will i will to come come to pass pass by buy the time buy the dress dress it up up the ante… does it make sense? do you understand me? do you know me? do you want this? do you want me? i’m waiting on pins and needles, please don’t make me ask again..
The old woman cackled, grabbed my wrist with her filthy talons and beckoned me to sit on a fluffy pink cushion. She told me to wait. I looked around this dump, viewing the layers and layers of overlapping fabric in candy colors and the thick smoke that made my throat scream for mercy. The witch shuffled back into the room and presented me with a bejeweled box with a heavy lid. Opening it, I found a small doll with button eyes and a stitched mouth. She handed me some pins, and I plunged them into the voo doo doll.
All I do was wonder how I brought myself to resort to this.
“Haha let me go!” I laugh as we wrestle on the floor. He pins me down in the gentlest of ways, a sweet smile crosses his lips. I hear him whisper as his lips touch mine, “Oh yeah? Make me.”
Sink into the abyss, let each and ever dark though wrap around needle-thin arms, till the patchwork of all that shall be put into a loom and woven is as mismatched as the scars on skin, red against black.