Wasteland: The place where there is nothing, not sure what the song by The Who is about. I think of drugs, and somewhere where nobody but the strong-minded would want to go, I don’t know. Trash? Too typical.
The Waste Land by TS Eliot is one of my favorite poems. The different characters that appear in different verses all seem to suffer some sort of defeat. The poem takes a grim outlook on life – that it’s all just kind of a waste land. People going about their everyday business, but nothing really matters in the grand scheme of things.
a desolate place where nothing can be done. you cant do anything but watch the world around you shift with the sand dunes. you are powerless and alone.
There she sits on her throne, cold and scared and all alone.
And she tells me it’s all just a wasteland.
Should have swallowed my pride
Before I looked into those eyes
But she tells me like she’s seen everything:
Oh, it’s just a wasteland
It’s just a wasteland
Rivers of gold,
Flowers spread wide across the open cratered ground, where the willows hang sorrowfully over green waters. Salt drips from the beaks of the plain faces, with whispers of the north calling closely.
some of the deserts in Arizona are considered wastelands. I myself have that immediate response, that Arizona deserts are a wasteland. But then I check myself and realize that there is so much beautiful life in the deserts. I’m extremely sad with the amount of random dumping there is in the desert.
teenage wasteland… the who have a song called Bubba O’Reilley and in the song the mention “teenage wasteland” which to me, being a teenager is all about the failure and eperimentations you go through while in your teen years. i think that it is quite amazing that there is so much animosity towards teenagers today because of how people portray us through the media and whatnot.
wasteland a disgusting place. and empty void. the way i feel now after fighting with kate being such a good friend. i dont have a boyfriend nobody likes me. wastelands suck. i
I saw a wasteland and it was empty like a graveyard. No gravestones, but the atmosphere was so cold and morose that there could have been hundreds of thousand year old people buried beneath the stale earth. The sky was lit by shadows hugging the wasteland into a tight, secluded bubble of earth to be stumbled upon by no one at all.
I glanced out over the wasteland that was my life: my father lay quietly in the coffin, my estranged stepmother and brother were turned away from me and my sister couldn’t decide who needed her emotional strength more. I didnt.
I stepped into the empty place. There was nothing but ash and lost hope. I cried a bit for what has happened to our beautiful world. Why did we abuse it? Why could we not live in peace? Why did we have to launch int space just to stay alive? Questions wont help. Only actions will.
I think of the T.S Eliot poem. I never could understand much of it. There was a town next to my town that was destroyed by a tornado and it looks like a wasteland. There are no houses and stores. Many people died. It’s just so strange that it happened so close to me.
Thorn stared out over the tips of the buildings, sprouting up from the desolate wasteland around them like an iron oasis growing in the sand. She hadn’t seen the scape in ten years, but it hadn’t changed. “Parasites”.
South Dakota or N. dakota called the bad lands or the mountain where they wanted to store all the nuclear waste
a good name for a grunge band
by bank acct
I looked across the desolate wasteland as the sun set in the west. For years I had dreamed of walking towards the setting sun in the hope of starting a new life; to have a clean slate. Maybe then i could of had friends, maybe even a family. Now all hope of that is gone…along with everybody else. It was like one of the nightmares i had when i was a child, but those horrible night time visions were finally becoming true, coming back to haunt my empty dead mind.
Maybe America is a wasteland. Perhaps the biggest within the universe. So many people are starving, yet we’re throwing things out without thinking. It’s unfair. Maybe, we the people, created the word. Maybe.
It is dark and I hear nothing. When I open my eyes I see that I’m in a wasteland. It’s not just the sight of it that hurts, but the whole atmosphere permeates hopelessness. Whispers float up from the wreckage – “it’s a lost cause” – “nothing we can do but adapt or die.” What I hear are excuses. I close my eyes. When I open them again there will be change. It won’t happen in an instant, because it’s not exactly the sweeping magic of instant gratification, but reform – transformation – is inevitable. We are never the same from one moment to the next. Either you help direct it or you are directed by it. But when I open my eyes I know which direction I will choose.
It was a vast, cruel place. Another way of saying that everything had died, and that nobody had survived the massacre. It was horrid, with bloodstains everywhere and a mess of putrid flesh. as the days wore on, he thought about it less and less, just focusing on trying to survive. It was no easy task. First, he had to find food. Then came shelter. The only thing keeping him going was the small leaf that he kept in his pocket. A symbol of hope. New life could begin where old life had ended. It was all a cycle. Nothing more, nothing less.
wasteland bitter is the taste of ashes on my tongue my lips peeling from the claws of the last dying crow so brave the heroes now dead now bones in the valley of our last dying dream this gravel bed of false hopes and lost luster do you remember me i wonder do you remember the green traffic light and how you said fuck it won’t go away and you’ll still be here in this white car and i’ll be on the other side because i can’t reach you.
This is a place where our younger generation is spending most of their time. They no longer spend time outside or doing things creative, instead they spend time watching television or on the computer. They should be outside doing something with the amazing body that was given to them to help change the world. Be the change in the world!
I’m living in a wasteland. This place is awful. The people are awful. They always tell you when you’re younger that you’ll have a chance to get out. Just fill in all the blanks on the test. Work harder on your homework and before you know it you’ll be in the promised land. Bullshit. The sad truth is they’re still living in a wasteland too.
Grealdo and his dog wandered through the wasteland left behind by 21st century consumers. It was a desert populated by plastic things, toys, washtubs, bags, lawn ornaments. The water had dried up long ago and they had no choice but to forge onward toward the holy land. The place where everything would be all right, where they would be saved, as were set forth in the prophecy.
It was when they got to the edge of the overgrown cracked asphalt and rusted remnants of petroleum-sourced vehicles that Grealdo knew he was close. Within 2 hours of walking from that point, there it was. The sign. It said it all and he was home. “D_sne_ La_d”
Oh yeah, that old TS Eliot, my English major way back when. I do not want my life measured out with coffee spoons. No bourgeois flat predictability. Although some may say this world is a wasteland, my answer is no, no suburbs or pessimism.
The world is a wasteland. We are destroying everything Mother Earth has provided us. We are eating away at her skin. We are filling her lungs with poison. We are burning her hair, her eyelashes, her eyebrows. We are killing her, body and soul. We are killing us. We are living in a wasteland.
The Wasteland. One of her favorite poems. She liked to quote it a lot. It was especially apropos when she was standing over another target, gun at the ready, while he sniveled and begged and pleaded.
“This is the way the world ends,” she said.
He sobbed something about a wife and child.
“This is the way the world ends,” she said again.
He wailed.
“This is the way the world ends,” she said, “not with a bang, but a whimper.”
. . . And something a lot of people don’t about T.S. Eliot is that he never actually even wrote his epic poem “The Wasteland.” Cobblers did it. Not shoe cobblers, like the elves from those famous stories, but poem cobblers. A small army of miniature artists who clamored up the long legs of Eliot’s desk to where he kept his fine tipped ink pens, where they scribbled out line after line of beautiful poetic dialogue. But the cobblers weren’t really all that great at writing. After all, how long did it take Ezra Pound to whittle it down until that long scrappy mess was publishable?
I’m living in a teenage wasteland. Its full of disabled bodies and people who just don’t give a fuck about one another. Who will come along and save us? No one because we have to save our damn selves. That’s it.
The wasteland is what Eliot preaches about. It’s what we’re all living in, dying in, loving in, hating, preaching, adoring. It’s what I wake up to. It’s who I pray to. Refuse and filth and beauty and purity. It’s all the same, you know. We’re all the same, here, in the wasteland.
Wasteland is the name of a documentary in Ryan’s Queue. I don’t know how to spell it. Can’t believe I just used up most of my time writing this, trying to figure out how to spell the word Queue. Damn Netflix.
what is a wasteland? can it be only physical or emotional? are we all wastelands? taking in toxins and emotions that slowly eat at our interior? wasteland is not only the earths surface being swept away, but an emotional trial for all of us. to keep our wasteland clean and safe, and maintain our lives; keep them pure.
I look around This place, this Wastland of sorts. I see the land effortlessly stretching as far as the eye can see to touch the sky in the distance, I feel the sun on my skin warming me and filling me with hope for a better tomorrow
there is a wasteland just over the hill, where creatures go to die. never to return. it is a dark and twisted place filled with despair and run on sentences where there is no hope and finishing in 60 seconds isnt an option. its instant. and makes no sense.
A desk, a computer, a mindless day of mundane tasks. Ask me to solve a problem, ask me a question that matters. Do you not see that there is something more that I have to givel
“Forties Wasteland!” Humbert spoofed The Who song as he drove down I-66. No one believed him when he said he was going urban legend hunting. All his life he had devoured urban legends. Most of his life he had wanted to find out if tales like the Hook Man, the Lady in White, and Bloody Mary had any basis in fact. On his 40th Birthday, he had bought an old Delta 88, sharpened a wooden stake, and purchased some silver bullets on Ebay. He’d posted a sign on his front door that said, “Gone Hunting,” and disappeared into the night.
There I was wandering the wasteland. It was barren and dry. Though the sun was beating down on my skin (I could almost feel it turning to leather), I realized that nothing in my life had ever seemed darker. In even the brightest light, only the shadows prevailed.
Bits of sand lifted with the wind. It clung to the sweat of her skin, grinding itself against her clothing, causing a rash on the underside of her arms. She smelled the slick of her skin and was reminded of the inside of the stomachs of lambs she used to slaughter back home.
I Walk through the barren wasteland, viewing the land stretch as far as the eye can see to couch the sky in the distance, look up to see the sun shining down on me, filling me with warmth and hope for a new day, I feel the love coming from the earth itself and gladly return it. Feeling the wind dance with my spirits and my heart growing in the spacebi allow it to receive.
Wasteland: The place where there is nothing, not sure what the song by The Who is about. I think of drugs, and somewhere where nobody but the strong-minded would want to go, I don’t know. Trash? Too typical.
The Waste Land by TS Eliot is one of my favorite poems. The different characters that appear in different verses all seem to suffer some sort of defeat. The poem takes a grim outlook on life – that it’s all just kind of a waste land. People going about their everyday business, but nothing really matters in the grand scheme of things.
a desolate place where nothing can be done. you cant do anything but watch the world around you shift with the sand dunes. you are powerless and alone.
On a lonely island, where the mysterious fortress of the dark ages stood for a millenia. Who would dare to como close, unknow of its mysteries?
There she sits on her throne, cold and scared and all alone.
And she tells me it’s all just a wasteland.
Should have swallowed my pride
Before I looked into those eyes
But she tells me like she’s seen everything:
Oh, it’s just a wasteland
It’s just a wasteland
Rivers of gold,
Flowers spread wide across the open cratered ground, where the willows hang sorrowfully over green waters. Salt drips from the beaks of the plain faces, with whispers of the north calling closely.
some of the deserts in Arizona are considered wastelands. I myself have that immediate response, that Arizona deserts are a wasteland. But then I check myself and realize that there is so much beautiful life in the deserts. I’m extremely sad with the amount of random dumping there is in the desert.
teenage wasteland… the who have a song called Bubba O’Reilley and in the song the mention “teenage wasteland” which to me, being a teenager is all about the failure and eperimentations you go through while in your teen years. i think that it is quite amazing that there is so much animosity towards teenagers today because of how people portray us through the media and whatnot.
wasteland a disgusting place. and empty void. the way i feel now after fighting with kate being such a good friend. i dont have a boyfriend nobody likes me. wastelands suck. i
I saw a wasteland and it was empty like a graveyard. No gravestones, but the atmosphere was so cold and morose that there could have been hundreds of thousand year old people buried beneath the stale earth. The sky was lit by shadows hugging the wasteland into a tight, secluded bubble of earth to be stumbled upon by no one at all.
I glanced out over the wasteland that was my life: my father lay quietly in the coffin, my estranged stepmother and brother were turned away from me and my sister couldn’t decide who needed her emotional strength more. I didnt.
I stepped into the empty place. There was nothing but ash and lost hope. I cried a bit for what has happened to our beautiful world. Why did we abuse it? Why could we not live in peace? Why did we have to launch int space just to stay alive? Questions wont help. Only actions will.
I think of the T.S Eliot poem. I never could understand much of it. There was a town next to my town that was destroyed by a tornado and it looks like a wasteland. There are no houses and stores. Many people died. It’s just so strange that it happened so close to me.
Thorn stared out over the tips of the buildings, sprouting up from the desolate wasteland around them like an iron oasis growing in the sand. She hadn’t seen the scape in ten years, but it hadn’t changed. “Parasites”.
South Dakota or N. dakota called the bad lands or the mountain where they wanted to store all the nuclear waste
a good name for a grunge band
by bank acct
I looked across the desolate wasteland as the sun set in the west. For years I had dreamed of walking towards the setting sun in the hope of starting a new life; to have a clean slate. Maybe then i could of had friends, maybe even a family. Now all hope of that is gone…along with everybody else. It was like one of the nightmares i had when i was a child, but those horrible night time visions were finally becoming true, coming back to haunt my empty dead mind.
Maybe America is a wasteland. Perhaps the biggest within the universe. So many people are starving, yet we’re throwing things out without thinking. It’s unfair. Maybe, we the people, created the word. Maybe.
It is dark and I hear nothing. When I open my eyes I see that I’m in a wasteland. It’s not just the sight of it that hurts, but the whole atmosphere permeates hopelessness. Whispers float up from the wreckage – “it’s a lost cause” – “nothing we can do but adapt or die.” What I hear are excuses. I close my eyes. When I open them again there will be change. It won’t happen in an instant, because it’s not exactly the sweeping magic of instant gratification, but reform – transformation – is inevitable. We are never the same from one moment to the next. Either you help direct it or you are directed by it. But when I open my eyes I know which direction I will choose.
It was a vast, cruel place. Another way of saying that everything had died, and that nobody had survived the massacre. It was horrid, with bloodstains everywhere and a mess of putrid flesh. as the days wore on, he thought about it less and less, just focusing on trying to survive. It was no easy task. First, he had to find food. Then came shelter. The only thing keeping him going was the small leaf that he kept in his pocket. A symbol of hope. New life could begin where old life had ended. It was all a cycle. Nothing more, nothing less.
wasteland bitter is the taste of ashes on my tongue my lips peeling from the claws of the last dying crow so brave the heroes now dead now bones in the valley of our last dying dream this gravel bed of false hopes and lost luster do you remember me i wonder do you remember the green traffic light and how you said fuck it won’t go away and you’ll still be here in this white car and i’ll be on the other side because i can’t reach you.
teenage mutant ninja turtles.
This is a place where our younger generation is spending most of their time. They no longer spend time outside or doing things creative, instead they spend time watching television or on the computer. They should be outside doing something with the amazing body that was given to them to help change the world. Be the change in the world!
I’m living in a wasteland. This place is awful. The people are awful. They always tell you when you’re younger that you’ll have a chance to get out. Just fill in all the blanks on the test. Work harder on your homework and before you know it you’ll be in the promised land. Bullshit. The sad truth is they’re still living in a wasteland too.
dry desert and no water
just a carcass and a woman with no teeth
both unappealing and smelly
“What is a wasteland?”
He gently asks me.
“You never know, child. Now go ahead and discover yourself”
Grealdo and his dog wandered through the wasteland left behind by 21st century consumers. It was a desert populated by plastic things, toys, washtubs, bags, lawn ornaments. The water had dried up long ago and they had no choice but to forge onward toward the holy land. The place where everything would be all right, where they would be saved, as were set forth in the prophecy.
It was when they got to the edge of the overgrown cracked asphalt and rusted remnants of petroleum-sourced vehicles that Grealdo knew he was close. Within 2 hours of walking from that point, there it was. The sign. It said it all and he was home. “D_sne_ La_d”
Oh yeah, that old TS Eliot, my English major way back when. I do not want my life measured out with coffee spoons. No bourgeois flat predictability. Although some may say this world is a wasteland, my answer is no, no suburbs or pessimism.
The world is a wasteland. We are destroying everything Mother Earth has provided us. We are eating away at her skin. We are filling her lungs with poison. We are burning her hair, her eyelashes, her eyebrows. We are killing her, body and soul. We are killing us. We are living in a wasteland.
The Wasteland. One of her favorite poems. She liked to quote it a lot. It was especially apropos when she was standing over another target, gun at the ready, while he sniveled and begged and pleaded.
“This is the way the world ends,” she said.
He sobbed something about a wife and child.
“This is the way the world ends,” she said again.
He wailed.
“This is the way the world ends,” she said, “not with a bang, but a whimper.”
He whimpered. The gun went off with a bang.
. . . And something a lot of people don’t about T.S. Eliot is that he never actually even wrote his epic poem “The Wasteland.” Cobblers did it. Not shoe cobblers, like the elves from those famous stories, but poem cobblers. A small army of miniature artists who clamored up the long legs of Eliot’s desk to where he kept his fine tipped ink pens, where they scribbled out line after line of beautiful poetic dialogue. But the cobblers weren’t really all that great at writing. After all, how long did it take Ezra Pound to whittle it down until that long scrappy mess was publishable?
A long time.
I’m living in a teenage wasteland. Its full of disabled bodies and people who just don’t give a fuck about one another. Who will come along and save us? No one because we have to save our damn selves. That’s it.
The wasteland is what Eliot preaches about. It’s what we’re all living in, dying in, loving in, hating, preaching, adoring. It’s what I wake up to. It’s who I pray to. Refuse and filth and beauty and purity. It’s all the same, you know. We’re all the same, here, in the wasteland.
Wasteland is the name of a documentary in Ryan’s Queue. I don’t know how to spell it. Can’t believe I just used up most of my time writing this, trying to figure out how to spell the word Queue. Damn Netflix.
what is a wasteland? can it be only physical or emotional? are we all wastelands? taking in toxins and emotions that slowly eat at our interior? wasteland is not only the earths surface being swept away, but an emotional trial for all of us. to keep our wasteland clean and safe, and maintain our lives; keep them pure.
I look around This place, this Wastland of sorts. I see the land effortlessly stretching as far as the eye can see to touch the sky in the distance, I feel the sun on my skin warming me and filling me with hope for a better tomorrow
there is a wasteland just over the hill, where creatures go to die. never to return. it is a dark and twisted place filled with despair and run on sentences where there is no hope and finishing in 60 seconds isnt an option. its instant. and makes no sense.
A desk, a computer, a mindless day of mundane tasks. Ask me to solve a problem, ask me a question that matters. Do you not see that there is something more that I have to givel
“Forties Wasteland!” Humbert spoofed The Who song as he drove down I-66. No one believed him when he said he was going urban legend hunting. All his life he had devoured urban legends. Most of his life he had wanted to find out if tales like the Hook Man, the Lady in White, and Bloody Mary had any basis in fact. On his 40th Birthday, he had bought an old Delta 88, sharpened a wooden stake, and purchased some silver bullets on Ebay. He’d posted a sign on his front door that said, “Gone Hunting,” and disappeared into the night.
There I was wandering the wasteland. It was barren and dry. Though the sun was beating down on my skin (I could almost feel it turning to leather), I realized that nothing in my life had ever seemed darker. In even the brightest light, only the shadows prevailed.
Bits of sand lifted with the wind. It clung to the sweat of her skin, grinding itself against her clothing, causing a rash on the underside of her arms. She smelled the slick of her skin and was reminded of the inside of the stomachs of lambs she used to slaughter back home.
I Walk through the barren wasteland, viewing the land stretch as far as the eye can see to couch the sky in the distance, look up to see the sun shining down on me, filling me with warmth and hope for a new day, I feel the love coming from the earth itself and gladly return it. Feeling the wind dance with my spirits and my heart growing in the spacebi allow it to receive.