How do you dig a trench when the battle you are fighting is one of the heart? What shovel can you use to create a place to hide? Music, poetry, positive thoughts, perhaps a sympathetic ear to confide in? No matter the result of this encounter, win or lose; how long does one fight before the war is finally over?
A trench. A muddy hole in the ground. A place where I hide with my gun. Cold. Dark. Scary. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. Hope a bomb doesn’t explode. Hoping a bullet doesn’t shatter my face. Funny, how scared I am to die, since death seems like a better option than this all encompassing anxiety of war. Can’t we just get it over with? Instead I have to wait for death, wondering when it will come.
A trench is something we dig and get stuck in and it can be murder to escape and murder if we do, but once stuck the mind, the soul, the yearning to excape trumps the risk and so we do. We escape the trench and then whoops! We dig another and escape and repeat.
Our men are out there in the trenches. Fighting a fight for people who no longer care about the outcome. In generations before us, men and women marched in the streets or collected supplies or became riveters for their boys in uniform. Where did we become aloof along the way?
the man in the trench coat knelt
over his wife’s blood-drenched form.
she was limp, pale, and cold.
he put his head to her chest as he felt the last beats of her heart dying out.
she was his.
but now
she was gone.
forever.
There was no way out. The enemy was just over the rise, and even in the depths of the hole he had found himself in, he could feel the tromp of their boots, the trembling of earth that accompanied the tanks. The oncoming assault was everywhere, and he had nowhere to go.
is this something that has to do with water? or maybe hopping over some kind a bridge with a trench under neath it? maybe something trolls live in, im not really sure what this is.
Down in the trench, Sergeant Banks was writing a letter to her grandmother. The insignia had lost its glitter against her collar long ago, and dirt had buried its way so deep under her fingernails that she could barely feel her cuticles. It was cold, and the ink was thin. She tried to draw a heart. It came out as a circle.
At times one finds himself in a trench with no bayonet and half naked under crossfire feeling unexpectedly at ease and full of hope to trench upon a new life. Scary? Unrealistic? Out of place? No.
Hiding in sludgy water, thick and heavy with the blood of my friends and enemies alike, it was hard to think and even harder to breath. Or maybe that was because of the wound beneath my breast, which had been bleeding off and on for the last two days. Not that it mattered to me.
Kneeling in the muddy, nearly overflowing trench, I was already half convinced that death could be no worse than this. Surely, if nothing else, there would be less mud, less blood. Maybe I wasn’t heaven material but I firmly believed that hell had nothing on the war front.
The trench protected us from death. The funny thing is that we still see death staring us right in the face as we take the steps that those who got away from the trench.
it`s a coat and you can dress with it. it is very popular among fashionistas . his color is comonly peachy like, i dont really know what it`s called-the color.
He trudged forward on his elbows; reminiscent of a snail squelching along, through the trench. Bombs whistled through his ears, but he knew nothing had touched ground yet; PTSD already had its clutches around him, and each and every second of movement brought forth yet another barrage of warfare, ringing in his ears.
You could hear the blast from a two miles out, but you weren’t two miles out.You were a hundred feet from the grenade blast. You hear stories, but they never tell you about the pieces of earth hurled at you. Sure, the shrapnel cuts you, but it’s the stone that bludgeons you, the wayward rock that concusses you. And ultimately, when you’re in that trench, you either hope that that rock knocks you out cold before the enemy storms your keep, or better yet, knocks you dead to spare you the long, painful agony, because when you’re out there, the only certainty is death.
The trench was filled with the blood of his friends. Tears streamed down his face but still he kept firing, praying to God that he would be able to get through this nightmare.
I have the sexiest jacket. It goes to my knees. It’s made out of navy twill, with big black buttons. It has a tie that accentuates the waist and breasts all in one simple knot.
World War I was known for trench warfare.
On Christmas, opposing troops declared a truce and sang carols together,
So really, what was the point of the battle?
He leaped down into the 5 foot trench and realized the world seemed smaller– less complicated underground. The bullets whizzing overhead were no different than mosquitoes buzzing in the summertime.
The trench was deep
There was no way out, it seemed
I have dug a hole
That only I could have fallen into
That only I can get myself out of
Panic set in
As the darkness became darker
I can hear me breathing
But is there another breath?
Someone above has come to the rescue?
I was digging. I had no set goal, I was just digging. Not for the exercise, nor for the pleasure; to calm me down. A safe action to channel my anger into. A rhythm for my beating heart and pumping blood. A rhythm to calm the curses flying around my brain like trapped birds. Push shovel in, throw sand out. Push shovel in, throw sand out. Push shovel in, throw sand out. To dig a grave. Or maybe just a trench, to separate me from the object of my anger.
Wiping the sweat from my forehead with a mud-caked wrist, I turn to look at the trench I’ve plowed. It winds like a drunken ourobouros. Why did I ever start this garden?
The trench stank. Blood, sweat, piss and shit. Corporal Glass breathed deep and stretched his back. Another day in the trenches. Maybe he’d get lucky and die.
I sit in the trench trembling. I have watched waves and waves of men go over the top. My fellow soldiers cut down. They are, or were, my friends, I couldn’t do it. What’s the point of dying in this stupid war? What’s my death going to achieve? NOTHING.
But we have no choice. Die at the hands of the Germans, or die by firing squad. At least this way i’d die with dignity. But is there any dignity in a war like this? Just machines. That’s all the world is these days. Men on top of the hierarchy, using humans as machines to slaughter each other.
I hear the whistle. It’s my time. I say a prayer and climb the ladder. I see the corpses of the men i had joked with a few minutes ago. I stumble forward and then pain. black. mud. pain. pain. and then nothingness.
The place where I feel safe, is where many have gone to die. It is dark yet light during the height of the day, the warmth from years gone by in the solid ground surrounding me with hope. I hide here where many have come to thrive.
Trapped in the narrow confines of where I am bound to die. I can’t see my enemy from where I am buried knee deep in human excrement and horrors I had never imagined from my warm bed at home – but I would happily swim in this muck forever than meet my true fate, a bullet in my skull.
How do you dig a trench when the battle you are fighting is one of the heart? What shovel can you use to create a place to hide? Music, poetry, positive thoughts, perhaps a sympathetic ear to confide in? No matter the result of this encounter, win or lose; how long does one fight before the war is finally over?
A trench. A muddy hole in the ground. A place where I hide with my gun. Cold. Dark. Scary. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. Hope a bomb doesn’t explode. Hoping a bullet doesn’t shatter my face. Funny, how scared I am to die, since death seems like a better option than this all encompassing anxiety of war. Can’t we just get it over with? Instead I have to wait for death, wondering when it will come.
A trench is something we dig and get stuck in and it can be murder to escape and murder if we do, but once stuck the mind, the soul, the yearning to excape trumps the risk and so we do. We escape the trench and then whoops! We dig another and escape and repeat.
something you dig
second word in Marianas trench
a six letter word
Our men are out there in the trenches. Fighting a fight for people who no longer care about the outcome. In generations before us, men and women marched in the streets or collected supplies or became riveters for their boys in uniform. Where did we become aloof along the way?
the man in the trench coat knelt
over his wife’s blood-drenched form.
she was limp, pale, and cold.
he put his head to her chest as he felt the last beats of her heart dying out.
she was his.
but now
she was gone.
forever.
There was no way out. The enemy was just over the rise, and even in the depths of the hole he had found himself in, he could feel the tromp of their boots, the trembling of earth that accompanied the tanks. The oncoming assault was everywhere, and he had nowhere to go.
is this something that has to do with water? or maybe hopping over some kind a bridge with a trench under neath it? maybe something trolls live in, im not really sure what this is.
Down in the trench, Sergeant Banks was writing a letter to her grandmother. The insignia had lost its glitter against her collar long ago, and dirt had buried its way so deep under her fingernails that she could barely feel her cuticles. It was cold, and the ink was thin. She tried to draw a heart. It came out as a circle.
At times one finds himself in a trench with no bayonet and half naked under crossfire feeling unexpectedly at ease and full of hope to trench upon a new life. Scary? Unrealistic? Out of place? No.
Hiding in sludgy water, thick and heavy with the blood of my friends and enemies alike, it was hard to think and even harder to breath. Or maybe that was because of the wound beneath my breast, which had been bleeding off and on for the last two days. Not that it mattered to me.
Kneeling in the muddy, nearly overflowing trench, I was already half convinced that death could be no worse than this. Surely, if nothing else, there would be less mud, less blood. Maybe I wasn’t heaven material but I firmly believed that hell had nothing on the war front.
The trench protected us from death. The funny thing is that we still see death staring us right in the face as we take the steps that those who got away from the trench.
it`s a coat and you can dress with it. it is very popular among fashionistas . his color is comonly peachy like, i dont really know what it`s called-the color.
He trudged forward on his elbows; reminiscent of a snail squelching along, through the trench. Bombs whistled through his ears, but he knew nothing had touched ground yet; PTSD already had its clutches around him, and each and every second of movement brought forth yet another barrage of warfare, ringing in his ears.
fashion, buckle, buttons, wind, cold, coat, belt, women, windowshop
You could hear the blast from a two miles out, but you weren’t two miles out.You were a hundred feet from the grenade blast. You hear stories, but they never tell you about the pieces of earth hurled at you. Sure, the shrapnel cuts you, but it’s the stone that bludgeons you, the wayward rock that concusses you. And ultimately, when you’re in that trench, you either hope that that rock knocks you out cold before the enemy storms your keep, or better yet, knocks you dead to spare you the long, painful agony, because when you’re out there, the only certainty is death.
I live a trench with my bloody family.
I’m scared that the next bomb will kill us all.
Yet I’m not because I feel fearless against them all.
The trench was filled with the blood of his friends. Tears streamed down his face but still he kept firing, praying to God that he would be able to get through this nightmare.
I have the sexiest jacket. It goes to my knees. It’s made out of navy twill, with big black buttons. It has a tie that accentuates the waist and breasts all in one simple knot.
i don’t know whate dose it mean but i can look later for the right meaning to know
first you
dig a trench
not too shallow
deep enough to give shelter
from warm spring’s baking heat
but not so deep that the sprouts get lost
now even my weeks are weakening to the yearn of my years for your star to burn.
World War I was known for trench warfare.
On Christmas, opposing troops declared a truce and sang carols together,
So really, what was the point of the battle?
He leaped down into the 5 foot trench and realized the world seemed smaller– less complicated underground. The bullets whizzing overhead were no different than mosquitoes buzzing in the summertime.
The trench was deep
There was no way out, it seemed
I have dug a hole
That only I could have fallen into
That only I can get myself out of
Panic set in
As the darkness became darker
I can hear me breathing
But is there another breath?
Someone above has come to the rescue?
I was digging. I had no set goal, I was just digging. Not for the exercise, nor for the pleasure; to calm me down. A safe action to channel my anger into. A rhythm for my beating heart and pumping blood. A rhythm to calm the curses flying around my brain like trapped birds. Push shovel in, throw sand out. Push shovel in, throw sand out. Push shovel in, throw sand out. To dig a grave. Or maybe just a trench, to separate me from the object of my anger.
It meandered from one end of the garden to the other, through the raspberries and shriveled lettuce leaves. Trucks lay on their side painted with mud.
Wiping the sweat from my forehead with a mud-caked wrist, I turn to look at the trench I’ve plowed. It winds like a drunken ourobouros. Why did I ever start this garden?
I hated the trenches the most
when you said you’d
come to my rescue,
but stayed far behind,
waiting for the war inside
to end.
but it never did.
and you never came.
high winds which carry great clouds of dust in the desert
brand
new-fashioned
new-brand
modern
fashion
The trench stank. Blood, sweat, piss and shit. Corporal Glass breathed deep and stretched his back. Another day in the trenches. Maybe he’d get lucky and die.
trench is a great help for people in war because it is help them to hid
shout
french, train, trendy, rent,
The war. A ditch. Something you don’t want to be in. Something scary.
i really like trench to wear in a special moment in a fantastic week. I’ve ever seen
I sit in the trench trembling. I have watched waves and waves of men go over the top. My fellow soldiers cut down. They are, or were, my friends, I couldn’t do it. What’s the point of dying in this stupid war? What’s my death going to achieve? NOTHING.
But we have no choice. Die at the hands of the Germans, or die by firing squad. At least this way i’d die with dignity. But is there any dignity in a war like this? Just machines. That’s all the world is these days. Men on top of the hierarchy, using humans as machines to slaughter each other.
I hear the whistle. It’s my time. I say a prayer and climb the ladder. I see the corpses of the men i had joked with a few minutes ago. I stumble forward and then pain. black. mud. pain. pain. and then nothingness.
The place where I feel safe, is where many have gone to die. It is dark yet light during the height of the day, the warmth from years gone by in the solid ground surrounding me with hope. I hide here where many have come to thrive.
Trapped in the narrow confines of where I am bound to die. I can’t see my enemy from where I am buried knee deep in human excrement and horrors I had never imagined from my warm bed at home – but I would happily swim in this muck forever than meet my true fate, a bullet in my skull.