i’m probably going to get stuck to this. long naked trees in a damp winter midday. i wish i could remember the complex words you evoked in me every time we had a conversation about simplicity and the tricks in life that matter. not like those swinging cables in the tbs concert we saw.
“Sticks and stones will break my bones but names will never hurt me.” The childhood chant rang through my head as I sat waiting in the counsellor’s office for my next patient. Whoever had said the words was either naive or a raving lunatic who was able to shrug off anything anyone said. The number of children I had seen harmed by a “simple” word boggled my mind.
sticks are long and brown. i once read they make good initial practice with a sword. sticks. not purple sticks like the one above, but brown sticks. i wonder what secret relevance sticks have.
Ah well i guess i find out soon. PURPLE.
Sticks are all over are back yard. The storms that come through our area cause them to fall from the older trees that have dead branches. We pick up sticks and put them in our burn pile. Our grandchildren get paid for every stick they take to the burn pile when they come to visit, so picking up sticks is a great game for them! Sometimes, we save the longer, sturdier sticks and sharpen the ends to make them into marshmellow roasting sticks. Then, when we have a bon fire, the sticks serve as a food holder for marshmellows and hot dogs. Sticks that are too large to mow over have to be removed but the smaller ones are often just left and mulched by the mower.
With a large yard you can expect to have to deal with sticks – unless you have no trees! The hardwood trees seem to shed fewer branches than the softer ones, like elms. We would like to replace our softwood trees with the elms so that we have less yard trash…sticks to pick up.
sticks again? what is it with the fucking sticks? better to have loved and lost than to never have stuck. that doesn’t seem like something that would stick as a proverb. where i come from, the good men know the best proverbs. where i am, nobody can remember what the fuck a proverb is. i’m sticking around just for the hell of it.
The little girl walked through the woods collecting sticks to make a fire with. Though there were plenty of trees around her she failed to find any. She became frustrated and went back to her campground. The would have no fire tonight.
Sticks are small pieces of wood that can be used for burning, to start a fire or their can be tied together to make a broom. However you used them, there can be handy at times.
there are a number of sticks in this world. sticks that are hard and long and not terribly thick. sticks like things that you get attached to. sticks as things that you remember. the later might be a form of the former kind of stick, but they are not necessarily the same. link sticks in a different way than velcro, and yet, i can never remember to take the lint out of the pockets of my recently washed coats.
I am thinking of winter. I am thinking of a photograph with a long, naked tree. This is not black and white, this is color.
Sticking to the bottom of my shoe is a piece of dignity. I think it was yours. Your name will never stick the same to me again.
I liked to play pick up sticks when I was young, and when I got older I was more interested in drumsticks. The kind you play drums with as well as the chicken and turkey kind. Sticks grow on trees, and sometimes have leaves.
there is something about his smile that just sticks with me. That grin that curves, convex, t’ward the sky, embracing his face. The way the corners nearly touch his eyes. Unforgettable.
sticks and stones will break my bones but words will never hurt me. i feel like sticks have been stuck into my sides, into my heart and im sick to death of it. why do i stick to you like this im sticking to you like glue. i miss the past
Nothing sticks. I go through hours of conversation and thought and figure it out, understand that I have to change certain things, accept others, and carry on in a better vein, and then, nothing. It’s like it never happened.
In the southern region of Daleth, there exists a monster. Some say, it cannot be found, and if it is found, it cannot be killed. It wields a sword made from the fires of hell, and has skin as tough as steel. Its bit is powerful enough to cleave a man in two. It’s up to you to stop it.
Sticks crunching beneath her feet, branches snapping against her face. She didn’t notice. She ran, ran as if the devil was after her, ran as if her life itself counted on it. As if it mattered. At all. It didn’t. He would find her. No matter where she hid,
stiks rare very useful for building and as building material, They are numerous in existence and vary in size shape color and material. Sticks can be purchased both on and offline many people have used sticks to imrpove their existence. In history sticks have been used to build huts and houses. If I were a stick i would feel very useful.
i remember the game pick up stick, i used to play it with my old best friend. we were so close, despite being so little. i wonder sometimes what his life is like now that he moved so far away, and i wish i could message him or call but im too shy. i wonder what my life would be like with him, would i be happier?
Standing there by the large open-faced fireplace enjoying his cigarette, Jensen shuffled one of his feet and skidded a few small sticks back into the firebox. When he looked up, he was staring down the twin barrels of the sawn-off shotgun in the little hands of the angel.
I have done this one already, before I signed up, it was good too. This one isn’t. I haven’t said anything about sticks. I wish there were red sticks, from red trees.
Ce fut un aileron sous le jour de mai. La vanité de l’histoire n’était que passage… vers un courant de haute voltige. Je vire-voltais sur les cimes jardinières de l’ennuie tendis que l’avidité de l’abandon nous minait de mille failles ciselés.
La demande fut aussi abondamment ruisselante. Les flans du geyser de se laissait masser que par une ruine de l’âme… juste un pas et la déraison mienne passait du versant noire – à celui de la mine, visible assaut à l’innomée d’un printemps pourtant esseulant.
La toundra, sous le soleil de sa mémoire, te ramifiait en de vendanges ¬ issues. Le cerf, attaqué par tes odeurs perfides… accepta la transfusion de l’atome ! Le chantre de l’hyménée était gagné.
Je me souviendrai longtemps des vos ingres espérances /
Mon instinct paie le tribut de mes affolantes vêpres…
Puisse l’ami de la patrie, le prêtre de la Nature ; la ville
radiante, ligne de mire de mes trempes, vire et vrille :
Je reconnaît la souvereinetéd, l’Homme mise le juuillet 1
have come to mind when storms fall trees, when words are throne and hurt my soul or great music is played that I must boogie too. Love your sticks beware of sticks most of all kindle love like the sticks woven together in a basket
there were sticks laying on the ground, next to the body. they looked as though they had fallen right next to her. or she had fallen on them. broken them, bled on them. it made them seem to matter more, even though they didn’t. not when she was dead, and her mama was crying, and her daddy didn’t know how to keep it together.
the girl ran across the road and picked up a stick. She didnt know what she was going to do with it but she knew she needed to protect herself some how. She knew he was following and there wasnt much she could do. So she turned and waited and saw him coming, running fast..yet slowly as he approached she raise the stick as if it were a bat and he kept coming.
…and stones will break my bones but words will never hurt me. That’s not even true. Words DO hurt. Words can destroy relationships. Words can impact countries. Words are much more powerful than sticks.
Leaning over the bridge, I could see the fish haboured there. So much effort to stay in one place. Is that what life amounts to? Just then, my little brother shouted from the other side.
“Poo sticks!”
With a loud splash, he threw a willow twig across my head, into the river.
“Hey! Not fair,” I threw my stick straight in.
They carried on the water, moving under the bridge. Finally, momentum. That is what my life needed.
are brown and remind me of snowmen because i always have trouble finding big enough sticks for their arms, or I just find one and then they look lopsided. They remind me of autumn and fun in the park in cold. I love the colours orange and brown and red. They remind me of cosy nights in with a log fire, which I have always wanted to have. This reminds me of ‘Little Women’ which used to be one of my favourite books. It had a red cover too, so, in essence sticks remind me of ‘Little Women’
They are white with a head filled of colour orange. If your lucky, they are just white as snow and taste like mint. Those annoying killer sticks. Today I threw twenty-six of them out my window. But yet, every time I see, smell or just imagine one of them. My mouth starts craving them. Those fucking annoying killer sticks.
Sticks are little things. They can be used for many things. Sticks is plural word. Inside of word sticks there are six letters ( s, t, i, c, k and s angain).
“Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me.” That’s one of the biggest lies in the universe. Words hurt. They slice through your skin like a knife, hit your head like a brick, and break your heart like a hammer.
Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me is probably one of the biggest lies in the universe. Words hurt me. They slice through my skin and bruise my heart.
Poor, crackling, skeleton sticks, trampled and broken underfoot. Once they were part of life, of air and breath, aspiring to such lofty heights, and now dead, mouldering, but joined with earth, they become as one.
i’m probably going to get stuck to this. long naked trees in a damp winter midday. i wish i could remember the complex words you evoked in me every time we had a conversation about simplicity and the tricks in life that matter. not like those swinging cables in the tbs concert we saw.
“Sticks and stones will break my bones but names will never hurt me.” The childhood chant rang through my head as I sat waiting in the counsellor’s office for my next patient. Whoever had said the words was either naive or a raving lunatic who was able to shrug off anything anyone said. The number of children I had seen harmed by a “simple” word boggled my mind.
long
thin
grey
sleeve
can
man
blind
plural
6
single
rubbish
burn
tie
die
carry
glue
tape
stamp
agony
oh man i could do better!
sticks are long and brown. i once read they make good initial practice with a sword. sticks. not purple sticks like the one above, but brown sticks. i wonder what secret relevance sticks have.
Ah well i guess i find out soon. PURPLE.
Sticks are all over are back yard. The storms that come through our area cause them to fall from the older trees that have dead branches. We pick up sticks and put them in our burn pile. Our grandchildren get paid for every stick they take to the burn pile when they come to visit, so picking up sticks is a great game for them! Sometimes, we save the longer, sturdier sticks and sharpen the ends to make them into marshmellow roasting sticks. Then, when we have a bon fire, the sticks serve as a food holder for marshmellows and hot dogs. Sticks that are too large to mow over have to be removed but the smaller ones are often just left and mulched by the mower.
With a large yard you can expect to have to deal with sticks – unless you have no trees! The hardwood trees seem to shed fewer branches than the softer ones, like elms. We would like to replace our softwood trees with the elms so that we have less yard trash…sticks to pick up.
Sticks are tiny trample kings. Stomped on pretty much all the time. Life is a bummer for sticks.
sticks again? what is it with the fucking sticks? better to have loved and lost than to never have stuck. that doesn’t seem like something that would stick as a proverb. where i come from, the good men know the best proverbs. where i am, nobody can remember what the fuck a proverb is. i’m sticking around just for the hell of it.
The little girl walked through the woods collecting sticks to make a fire with. Though there were plenty of trees around her she failed to find any. She became frustrated and went back to her campground. The would have no fire tonight.
Sticks are small pieces of wood that can be used for burning, to start a fire or their can be tied together to make a broom. However you used them, there can be handy at times.
there are a number of sticks in this world. sticks that are hard and long and not terribly thick. sticks like things that you get attached to. sticks as things that you remember. the later might be a form of the former kind of stick, but they are not necessarily the same. link sticks in a different way than velcro, and yet, i can never remember to take the lint out of the pockets of my recently washed coats.
I am thinking of winter. I am thinking of a photograph with a long, naked tree. This is not black and white, this is color.
Sticking to the bottom of my shoe is a piece of dignity. I think it was yours. Your name will never stick the same to me again.
I liked to play pick up sticks when I was young, and when I got older I was more interested in drumsticks. The kind you play drums with as well as the chicken and turkey kind. Sticks grow on trees, and sometimes have leaves.
there is something about his smile that just sticks with me. That grin that curves, convex, t’ward the sky, embracing his face. The way the corners nearly touch his eyes. Unforgettable.
Sticks are so cool. we used to play with them in our childhood. but they’re still fun. we used to pick up sticks and march singing a rhyme.
sticks and stones will break my bones but words will never hurt me. i feel like sticks have been stuck into my sides, into my heart and im sick to death of it. why do i stick to you like this im sticking to you like glue. i miss the past
sticks and stones may brake my bones, but words will never hurt me. i like trowing sticks around, but one should never hurt a friend with words
Nothing sticks. I go through hours of conversation and thought and figure it out, understand that I have to change certain things, accept others, and carry on in a better vein, and then, nothing. It’s like it never happened.
In the southern region of Daleth, there exists a monster. Some say, it cannot be found, and if it is found, it cannot be killed. It wields a sword made from the fires of hell, and has skin as tough as steel. Its bit is powerful enough to cleave a man in two. It’s up to you to stop it.
Sticks crunching beneath her feet, branches snapping against her face. She didn’t notice. She ran, ran as if the devil was after her, ran as if her life itself counted on it. As if it mattered. At all. It didn’t. He would find her. No matter where she hid,
stiks rare very useful for building and as building material, They are numerous in existence and vary in size shape color and material. Sticks can be purchased both on and offline many people have used sticks to imrpove their existence. In history sticks have been used to build huts and houses. If I were a stick i would feel very useful.
i remember the game pick up stick, i used to play it with my old best friend. we were so close, despite being so little. i wonder sometimes what his life is like now that he moved so far away, and i wish i could message him or call but im too shy. i wonder what my life would be like with him, would i be happier?
Standing there by the large open-faced fireplace enjoying his cigarette, Jensen shuffled one of his feet and skidded a few small sticks back into the firebox. When he looked up, he was staring down the twin barrels of the sawn-off shotgun in the little hands of the angel.
I have done this one already, before I signed up, it was good too. This one isn’t. I haven’t said anything about sticks. I wish there were red sticks, from red trees.
Sticks and Stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me.
Ce fut un aileron sous le jour de mai. La vanité de l’histoire n’était que passage… vers un courant de haute voltige. Je vire-voltais sur les cimes jardinières de l’ennuie tendis que l’avidité de l’abandon nous minait de mille failles ciselés.
La demande fut aussi abondamment ruisselante. Les flans du geyser de se laissait masser que par une ruine de l’âme… juste un pas et la déraison mienne passait du versant noire – à celui de la mine, visible assaut à l’innomée d’un printemps pourtant esseulant.
La toundra, sous le soleil de sa mémoire, te ramifiait en de vendanges ¬ issues. Le cerf, attaqué par tes odeurs perfides… accepta la transfusion de l’atome ! Le chantre de l’hyménée était gagné.
Je me souviendrai longtemps des vos ingres espérances /
Mon instinct paie le tribut de mes affolantes vêpres…
Puisse l’ami de la patrie, le prêtre de la Nature ; la ville
radiante, ligne de mire de mes trempes, vire et vrille :
Je reconnaît la souvereinetéd, l’Homme mise le juuillet 1
break my bones with gnarled pieces of wood, why don,t you try. Impossible, eh! Eh!
have come to mind when storms fall trees, when words are throne and hurt my soul or great music is played that I must boogie too. Love your sticks beware of sticks most of all kindle love like the sticks woven together in a basket
there were sticks laying on the ground, next to the body. they looked as though they had fallen right next to her. or she had fallen on them. broken them, bled on them. it made them seem to matter more, even though they didn’t. not when she was dead, and her mama was crying, and her daddy didn’t know how to keep it together.
Sticks are annoying. You step on them and crunch them endlessly. Bleh bleh bleh. y u no die
the girl ran across the road and picked up a stick. She didnt know what she was going to do with it but she knew she needed to protect herself some how. She knew he was following and there wasnt much she could do. So she turned and waited and saw him coming, running fast..yet slowly as he approached she raise the stick as if it were a bat and he kept coming.
…and stones will break my bones but words will never hurt me. That’s not even true. Words DO hurt. Words can destroy relationships. Words can impact countries. Words are much more powerful than sticks.
Leaning over the bridge, I could see the fish haboured there. So much effort to stay in one place. Is that what life amounts to? Just then, my little brother shouted from the other side.
“Poo sticks!”
With a loud splash, he threw a willow twig across my head, into the river.
“Hey! Not fair,” I threw my stick straight in.
They carried on the water, moving under the bridge. Finally, momentum. That is what my life needed.
are brown and remind me of snowmen because i always have trouble finding big enough sticks for their arms, or I just find one and then they look lopsided. They remind me of autumn and fun in the park in cold. I love the colours orange and brown and red. They remind me of cosy nights in with a log fire, which I have always wanted to have. This reminds me of ‘Little Women’ which used to be one of my favourite books. It had a red cover too, so, in essence sticks remind me of ‘Little Women’
They are white with a head filled of colour orange. If your lucky, they are just white as snow and taste like mint. Those annoying killer sticks. Today I threw twenty-six of them out my window. But yet, every time I see, smell or just imagine one of them. My mouth starts craving them. Those fucking annoying killer sticks.
Convincing me that he loves me until it sticks.
Sticks are little things. They can be used for many things. Sticks is plural word. Inside of word sticks there are six letters ( s, t, i, c, k and s angain).
“Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me.” That’s one of the biggest lies in the universe. Words hurt. They slice through your skin like a knife, hit your head like a brick, and break your heart like a hammer.
sticks are little. sticks. they probabily can be a little bit bigger, but usually they are small.
Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me is probably one of the biggest lies in the universe. Words hurt me. They slice through my skin and bruise my heart.
Poor, crackling, skeleton sticks, trampled and broken underfoot. Once they were part of life, of air and breath, aspiring to such lofty heights, and now dead, mouldering, but joined with earth, they become as one.
thin woody twiggy splinters knobbly spiddly in the sticks living in the sticks stick insect