Pushed against the bathroom stall’s off-white particle board walls, flesh, hot and stinking on top of her, hairy and too much. Oh,God–no…
Jeromy shrieked, kicking up, at the man’s crotch, clawing his eyes–
there is a gun firmly pressed to my temple, she thought, spinning words of silver and gold spiderwebs even at a time like this. there is a bitingly cold gun firmly pressed to the pounding heat of my temple, and i am about to die. she inhaled (shuddery and shallow, wavering at the seams), and exhaled (shaky and terrified, dripping tears of tomorrow). i am going to die.
I pressed the big wooden box shut, glancing around the dark room. The room was cold and still. Beads of sweat started to sprout above my eye brows. I thought I had heard foot steps. No one could know about this night. I backed away from the big wooden box slowly and ran to the door. I exited the chilled stone room, and ran, not daring too look back. That box wasn’t my business anymore. I told myself over and over again that I didn’t have to worry about it, but I still did. Maybe someone else would stumble upon the wooden box and know what to do with the dead body waiting inside.
He pressed her lips against hers and suddenly she knew she loved him. But did she really? Or was it just the sun and the skies and the crispness of the clouds and the perfection of her dreams making her think that maybe things were not what they always turned out to be.
Being Pressed.
Being Miserable.
Being Depressed.
Suffering.
Sadness.
Being Cold.
Being Harsh.
Being Sensitive.
All the words I have been called. They hurt me.
Except for the last one. Because I know I am the last one. I can never avoid it. I am sensitive beyond the usual person. I do not wish to be. I used to brush off everything like dust. They are getting to me. My heart, My soul. My head. My wish for immortality. I’m thriving for an escape. An escape I cannot find. An escape I wish to find. I will never find it. Because the hell I’m going through, is called life. And I hate every bit of it.
Pressed. The reporter ((why had he let her in anyway. she was too small, too loud, like a bug of some sort)) kept asking questions. ((She should have already know everything. She’d stolen and read his journals)). [why hadn’t he killed her for that]? She kept pressing on when he already felt FLATTENED.
I feel like I am constantly being pressed.
Always for different things, of course, but my life seems to be this never ending mission to complete a task for someone, or please someone, or make someone happy, and it is never about me.
Not that I am self centered or everything, it’s just that sometimes it would be nice to know that all of the stress I’m under is actually going to at least somewhat benefit ME in the end.
He pressed his lips against mine. God what a feeling. SO smooth and wonderful… He always tastes like mint gum. And his chest pressed against mine? How did I ever live without it? I can’t now…
pressed for time…counting down. trying to keep it together – remember to breathe! I’m driving them crazy, I know. But I feel crazy!! Like my brain is fragmented into 10 different pieces all trying to move in different directions at the same time. I’m just not ready…
I am pressed into perfection. I think I should be perfect. Then I will be better. I will finally remodel myself. But I, myself, do not want to be perfect. I am being pressed into it. Pressed by the person I may hate most, but am supposed to love most. It’s twisted. But that’s how the world is. Twisted, by hate, misery, depression. Pandora’s box has finally opened up to me. And unleashed everything onto me. I wish for it not to be this way. But I have felt the pain and suffering of Pandora’s box. And it has killed me everyday.
i pressed a button. i pressed my shirts. my shirts are never pressed enough. i can’t seem to get them to press themselves either. how come we have to even press things? why can’t they press themselves? the act seems of such minute importance, that the whole step should be skipped and forgotten about.
I was pressed for time. I had to make my decision fast. It was risky either way. Wishing someone would make my decision for me, I could’t do it myself..
My shirts in the morning, before we go to church. I always find them hanging, bright white, by the open window. If it’s raining, they’re on the desk. It’s always been this way, and neither of us have a problem with it. Not that I know of, anyway. Once there was a mascara stain…
We pressed on through the cold, heartless wind. Our skin was pulled taught by the neck-breaking force. But we continued anyways. My hands were glued to my body, and I’m fairly sure his were too…
Being pressed. Being understood.
Things that I want.
Things that I can’t have.
Are impossible. Misunderstood. Nothing is right. But everything is wrong. Oh so wrong. It’s sad. It depresses me. We are all ignorant. No one is based on perfection. Even if you thrive to be, your just being pressed into it. No one can have what they need. No one will be understood. Everyone gets what they want. And everyone gets pressed.
He pressed the button. Pressed it again. Which door will open? When will it come? He isn’t sure, but he wants it to come now. Now! He presses the button again. Each push of the button is like a weight on my chest.
pressed. Pressed for time. press the button pressed the blouse is pressed I lost my iron. Who has time anyway. Pressure to get all that list done where to start. who pressed the on button?
before, i was pressed to love you. i was so horribly and irrevocably in love that i couldn’t think for myself. then, i was pressed to stop loving you. i can’t tell which one’s worse. i was pressing myself to write, but you can’t do that. you write when you can. you write when you want. it should be someone you love. too bad, i feel like now, that feeling is lost…
I pressed the fruit under my heels and the juice ran out. Dark, red and looking almost like blood. It stained my toes and it ran in ruivulets in the channels down the side of my toenails. The terracotta earth was stained almost purple and the juice made a damp spot, a purple blotch on the soil.
i pressed my palm against the glass. the condensation was cool on my hand. i leaned forward and saw slushy snow and kids, everywhere. the bus was loud. i waited for someone to sit down next to me.
pressed into a corner the dark is suffocating me. I can’t see, I can’t breath, I can’t move. The nothingness surrounding me is heavy on my chest, pulsing with my heart.
Your pushing me.
Into being pressed.
Being pressed into perfection.
What if I don’t want to be perfect?
What if I don’t want to be controlled by you anymore?
What if your wrong?
What if what you say isn’t right?
What if Mom……What if I hate you? Would you consider how I feel then?
He pressed the button and the alarm went off, everyone was scared because it meant there would be a earthquake. People screamed and ran and he chuckled to himself. He called it button mayhem.
My cheek. Cold on the glass, but waiting wishfully that someone special would appear from around the corner and make this day different to ‘the day that I hit writer’s block’.
I am being pressed. I press people into doing things. And they press me into being convinced. I am never truly convinced about anything. I am convinced on one thing only. Being pressed does not mean being forced. It means to be manipulative and controlling. And we have all controlled someone before. I do not like being pressed. No one does. The thing is, we cannot avoid it.
Lots of things are pressed, from shirts to peoples’ schedule. Okay, that was STUPID. I’m sorry. I guess I’m PRESSED for humor. If I was famous, I’m sure the PRESS would hear about that. You know what, I write serious stuff most of the time but screw it. Puns. I’m pressing keys. Okay that wasn’t a pun. That was just a fact. I can’t think right now, it seems I’ve PRESSED myself into a corner. I can’t deal with this PRESS..ure. Okay. I’m done.
i was pressed for time. this wasn’t something i could put off, or procrastinate on. it was literally a matter of life or death. not my life, and not my death, but someone much more important. much more important to me, that is. if he didn’t make it, but i did, i couldn’t live with the guilt. and so i set off. i ran through dirty alleys, across rooftops, and finally, i came to the doorway. i didn’t know what lay behind it, but i knew that whatever it was, i would bear it, i would answer to it. i would complete whatever task lay at hand, because that’s what i was willing to do for love.
I pressed the flower between the pages of the dictionary, then put the dictionary back onto the shelves. I would leave it there and hope to stumble upon it during a winter day, the unexpected flowers falling from between teh pages a breathe of warmth.
The rain was sloshing back and forth across my windshield. The gun was pressed to my head and all I could think about were the kids at home wondering when mommy would be home. “Faster” he ordered as I slowly made a turn on Grand Ave. I had no idea where we were headed, but all I could focus on was the feel of the cold metal pressed to my temple.
Pressed for a deadline, backed up against the wall, breathing hard with nowhere to turn, nowhere to go. She cried alone in the office after hours, sometimes, and once she took her break to smoke out in the back, even though she had promised herself she would never pick up a Marlboro ever again. She looked in the mirror and felt terrible, awful, disgusting, inhuman; she missed the person she had always been, the self she had sold in exchange for a career.
I was pressed to think of a good thing to write about. What about apple pressing? It’s cider season and there are many great places to see apples getting pressed and their pulp being discarded onto a pile of cores and seeds. Do they ma
I couldn’t help but think that maybe, in some sick twisted sense, that the world was for killing me. It made since when one considered how often I was pressed into situations that were filled with danger and people who wished to kill me.
pressed makes me think of being pressed for time, not enough time pressed to finish this in time. pressed to make my life and my family’s lives as good as possible as quickly as possible pressed to live a lifetime in in only 100 hundred years how much time do i have left?
Pushed against the bathroom stall’s off-white particle board walls, flesh, hot and stinking on top of her, hairy and too much. Oh,God–no…
Jeromy shrieked, kicking up, at the man’s crotch, clawing his eyes–
there is a gun firmly pressed to my temple, she thought, spinning words of silver and gold spiderwebs even at a time like this. there is a bitingly cold gun firmly pressed to the pounding heat of my temple, and i am about to die. she inhaled (shuddery and shallow, wavering at the seams), and exhaled (shaky and terrified, dripping tears of tomorrow). i am going to die.
I pressed the big wooden box shut, glancing around the dark room. The room was cold and still. Beads of sweat started to sprout above my eye brows. I thought I had heard foot steps. No one could know about this night. I backed away from the big wooden box slowly and ran to the door. I exited the chilled stone room, and ran, not daring too look back. That box wasn’t my business anymore. I told myself over and over again that I didn’t have to worry about it, but I still did. Maybe someone else would stumble upon the wooden box and know what to do with the dead body waiting inside.
He pressed her lips against hers and suddenly she knew she loved him. But did she really? Or was it just the sun and the skies and the crispness of the clouds and the perfection of her dreams making her think that maybe things were not what they always turned out to be.
Being Pressed.
Being Miserable.
Being Depressed.
Suffering.
Sadness.
Being Cold.
Being Harsh.
Being Sensitive.
All the words I have been called. They hurt me.
Except for the last one. Because I know I am the last one. I can never avoid it. I am sensitive beyond the usual person. I do not wish to be. I used to brush off everything like dust. They are getting to me. My heart, My soul. My head. My wish for immortality. I’m thriving for an escape. An escape I cannot find. An escape I wish to find. I will never find it. Because the hell I’m going through, is called life. And I hate every bit of it.
Pressed. The reporter ((why had he let her in anyway. she was too small, too loud, like a bug of some sort)) kept asking questions. ((She should have already know everything. She’d stolen and read his journals)). [why hadn’t he killed her for that]? She kept pressing on when he already felt FLATTENED.
I feel like I am constantly being pressed.
Always for different things, of course, but my life seems to be this never ending mission to complete a task for someone, or please someone, or make someone happy, and it is never about me.
Not that I am self centered or everything, it’s just that sometimes it would be nice to know that all of the stress I’m under is actually going to at least somewhat benefit ME in the end.
I pressed all the buttons in the elevator it looked like a lit up Christmas tree it filled me with joy the others in the elevator weren’t so happy…
I was pressed solely against his body. so close i could feel his breath. I never felt so close to him before.
He pressed his lips against mine. God what a feeling. SO smooth and wonderful… He always tastes like mint gum. And his chest pressed against mine? How did I ever live without it? I can’t now…
Against the wall.
You against me.
Hearts beating fast.
Pounding in our chests.
Kiss me.
Long and deep.
Gasping for breath
gasping for more.
Your hand weaves
deeper into my hair.
Tickling my neck.
Our bodies press
closer and closer.
Leaving no room
for anything else.
pressed for time…counting down. trying to keep it together – remember to breathe! I’m driving them crazy, I know. But I feel crazy!! Like my brain is fragmented into 10 different pieces all trying to move in different directions at the same time. I’m just not ready…
I am pressed into perfection. I think I should be perfect. Then I will be better. I will finally remodel myself. But I, myself, do not want to be perfect. I am being pressed into it. Pressed by the person I may hate most, but am supposed to love most. It’s twisted. But that’s how the world is. Twisted, by hate, misery, depression. Pandora’s box has finally opened up to me. And unleashed everything onto me. I wish for it not to be this way. But I have felt the pain and suffering of Pandora’s box. And it has killed me everyday.
i pressed a button. i pressed my shirts. my shirts are never pressed enough. i can’t seem to get them to press themselves either. how come we have to even press things? why can’t they press themselves? the act seems of such minute importance, that the whole step should be skipped and forgotten about.
I was pressed for time. I had to make my decision fast. It was risky either way. Wishing someone would make my decision for me, I could’t do it myself..
i was pressed against the wall. i felt the cold letal of touch my back. A fear like no other passed through me in that moment. i feared for my life.
My shirts in the morning, before we go to church. I always find them hanging, bright white, by the open window. If it’s raining, they’re on the desk. It’s always been this way, and neither of us have a problem with it. Not that I know of, anyway. Once there was a mascara stain…
We pressed on through the cold, heartless wind. Our skin was pulled taught by the neck-breaking force. But we continued anyways. My hands were glued to my body, and I’m fairly sure his were too…
Being pressed. Being understood.
Things that I want.
Things that I can’t have.
Are impossible. Misunderstood. Nothing is right. But everything is wrong. Oh so wrong. It’s sad. It depresses me. We are all ignorant. No one is based on perfection. Even if you thrive to be, your just being pressed into it. No one can have what they need. No one will be understood. Everyone gets what they want. And everyone gets pressed.
He pressed the button. Pressed it again. Which door will open? When will it come? He isn’t sure, but he wants it to come now. Now! He presses the button again. Each push of the button is like a weight on my chest.
pressed. Pressed for time. press the button pressed the blouse is pressed I lost my iron. Who has time anyway. Pressure to get all that list done where to start. who pressed the on button?
before, i was pressed to love you. i was so horribly and irrevocably in love that i couldn’t think for myself. then, i was pressed to stop loving you. i can’t tell which one’s worse. i was pressing myself to write, but you can’t do that. you write when you can. you write when you want. it should be someone you love. too bad, i feel like now, that feeling is lost…
I pressed the fruit under my heels and the juice ran out. Dark, red and looking almost like blood. It stained my toes and it ran in ruivulets in the channels down the side of my toenails. The terracotta earth was stained almost purple and the juice made a damp spot, a purple blotch on the soil.
i pressed my palm against the glass. the condensation was cool on my hand. i leaned forward and saw slushy snow and kids, everywhere. the bus was loud. i waited for someone to sit down next to me.
pressed into a corner the dark is suffocating me. I can’t see, I can’t breath, I can’t move. The nothingness surrounding me is heavy on my chest, pulsing with my heart.
Pressed… Pressed for time? Pressed for luck? I pressed the red button!!! I pressed you down. I went to get pressed… Is there even such a thing?
Your pushing me.
Into being pressed.
Being pressed into perfection.
What if I don’t want to be perfect?
What if I don’t want to be controlled by you anymore?
What if your wrong?
What if what you say isn’t right?
What if Mom……What if I hate you? Would you consider how I feel then?
He pressed the button and the alarm went off, everyone was scared because it meant there would be a earthquake. People screamed and ran and he chuckled to himself. He called it button mayhem.
My cheek. Cold on the glass, but waiting wishfully that someone special would appear from around the corner and make this day different to ‘the day that I hit writer’s block’.
I am being pressed. I press people into doing things. And they press me into being convinced. I am never truly convinced about anything. I am convinced on one thing only. Being pressed does not mean being forced. It means to be manipulative and controlling. And we have all controlled someone before. I do not like being pressed. No one does. The thing is, we cannot avoid it.
ironed, still, and quiet. perfectly in shape like the flower and it is soft and beautiful. the glow is no longer but the touch is so simple.
Lots of things are pressed, from shirts to peoples’ schedule. Okay, that was STUPID. I’m sorry. I guess I’m PRESSED for humor. If I was famous, I’m sure the PRESS would hear about that. You know what, I write serious stuff most of the time but screw it. Puns. I’m pressing keys. Okay that wasn’t a pun. That was just a fact. I can’t think right now, it seems I’ve PRESSED myself into a corner. I can’t deal with this PRESS..ure. Okay. I’m done.
i was pressed for time. this wasn’t something i could put off, or procrastinate on. it was literally a matter of life or death. not my life, and not my death, but someone much more important. much more important to me, that is. if he didn’t make it, but i did, i couldn’t live with the guilt. and so i set off. i ran through dirty alleys, across rooftops, and finally, i came to the doorway. i didn’t know what lay behind it, but i knew that whatever it was, i would bear it, i would answer to it. i would complete whatever task lay at hand, because that’s what i was willing to do for love.
I pressed the flower between the pages of the dictionary, then put the dictionary back onto the shelves. I would leave it there and hope to stumble upon it during a winter day, the unexpected flowers falling from between teh pages a breathe of warmth.
Pressed for time, I ironed my Sunday dress to Dorothy-like perfection. Creases, pleats and all, crisp as a coffee grinder.
The rain was sloshing back and forth across my windshield. The gun was pressed to my head and all I could think about were the kids at home wondering when mommy would be home. “Faster” he ordered as I slowly made a turn on Grand Ave. I had no idea where we were headed, but all I could focus on was the feel of the cold metal pressed to my temple.
Pressed for a deadline, backed up against the wall, breathing hard with nowhere to turn, nowhere to go. She cried alone in the office after hours, sometimes, and once she took her break to smoke out in the back, even though she had promised herself she would never pick up a Marlboro ever again. She looked in the mirror and felt terrible, awful, disgusting, inhuman; she missed the person she had always been, the self she had sold in exchange for a career.
I was pressed to think of a good thing to write about. What about apple pressing? It’s cider season and there are many great places to see apples getting pressed and their pulp being discarded onto a pile of cores and seeds. Do they ma
I couldn’t help but think that maybe, in some sick twisted sense, that the world was for killing me. It made since when one considered how often I was pressed into situations that were filled with danger and people who wished to kill me.
pressed makes me think of being pressed for time, not enough time pressed to finish this in time. pressed to make my life and my family’s lives as good as possible as quickly as possible pressed to live a lifetime in in only 100 hundred years how much time do i have left?