Aha! she doth scorn my integrity
my character
the fiber of my being
with every jab she makes
every assumption
fostered under the fires of her anger
her bitter renown
Nicole
In my younger years my third grade teacher would scorn my misspellings on a vocabulary test.
When I decided to become a teacher at 55 I was met with a lot of scorn from classmates. They thought I was too old to make a difference.
Rick Glass
“Don’t you DARE say that!” For a moment, I though she was going to slap me. Bust she calmed her temper. “You are not worthless. Your not!”
“Please, your only making me feel worse.” I turned my back. “Just forget me, okay. You don’t need me and I… I don’t need you.”
No matter what she does, she can still feel it. The scornful glare of her mother, disapproving of every little thing she does. There’s no escape, no way out besides suffocation.
It was scorn. They talked, whispered, and sneered about those people who’s lives were too insignificant to be of importance to them. If they’d have only known that those people weren’t any different than they were.
Mary Ellen
Sherlock stole glances across the top of his textbook at John as he read, processing both the written information and several other trains of thought simultaneously. The older man was curled into his armchair with a thick quilt and a mug of tea, watching the news. Some stories brought an anxious crinkle to the doctor’s brow, while others had his nodding thoughtfully. Suddenly, John’s face shadowed into a scowl of scorn at the telly’s information. It was strange for Sherlock to see this expression on the face which he had become so accustomed to seeing in a state of kindness and concern. The detective couldn’t even remember the last time he’d seen John get angry any anyone other than himself, and never before with this shade of disrespect and dismissal.
Out of curiosity, Sherlock turned his gaze to the story at hand. There was a female behind an anchor’s desk, strawberry blonde and of slightly above-average aesthetic values. Sherlock knew that this woman was very much John’s type, so she couldn’t possibly be the issue of dissent. He diverted another fraction of his attention to the subject of her speech. “…while amazing in the obscurity of his range of knowledge, seems to display some typical symptoms of Aspberger’s, and in extreme cases, even Psychopathy, as accounted by a colleague from the Scotland Yard.”
The scene cut to a video clip of Sally Donovan in her uniform, a microphone pressed to her face. “Yeah, he’s insane,” she quipped dismissively, “The only thing that makes him happy is a good murder. I wouldn’t be surprised to see him switch fields in the future, if you know what I mean.”
The anchorwoman reappeared at her desk, with a cutaway in the corner showing that beloved photo of Sherlock ducking away behind a deerstalker. “Well there you have it, folks. If you’ve got a question that needs answered, Sherlock Holmes is your man… so long as it’s gruesome, obscure, or both.” The channel quickly switched gears and went on to cover the latest football match.
Sherlock flickered his gaze back over to John, who seemed to be positively seething. “How DARE they?” He growled around clenched teeth, fingers digging into the plush arms of his chair.
Sherlock only chuckled. “You really are too sensitive when it comes to the media,” he prodded playfully, “If anything that was quite good publicity, and may even help thin out the more mundane queries we get. Actually,” now that Sherlock paused to recount the few other times he’d paid attention to local media, “As far as news stories go, it was one of the more accurate I’ve seen.”
John grumbled softly but said no more, not bothering to correct Sherlock about the media being what he was sensitive about.
I hated myself for allowing myself to lose the control I had fought so hard to attain. It was like this substance and the accompanying feeling were all it took to forget I loved myself. Or at least convinced my conscious that I did.
The table was beautifully adorned with floral centre pieces placed at regular intervals down the middle of the long, solemn table. I leaned forward a little so I could catch the girls on either side of me in my periphery. I was surrounded by at least twenty other girls like me. All frightened, guilty and behaving in the same strict manner, policed by the adults interspersed regularly like the centre decorations on the table. The man in front and just to the right of me threw a sudden look of scorn at the ten year old sitting opposite him. I don’t know what she had done, but his face was threatening enough to make her stop in half an instant. His forehead ridged into a half dozen furrows as he lowered his bushy eyebrows and pointed his sharp gaze at her. She took a sharp intake of breath and then seemed to disappear from behind her eyes, looking straight ahead with a blank, unaffected expression, her skin noticeably paling. Then the heavy wooden door at the end of the room silently opened. There was a flash of white noise and the girl stood, her chair loudly scratching the floorboards beneath as it was pushed away by the back of her legs. The entire room then in the span of a blink turned a bright, painful white.
I scorn you, you moon of treacherous pearls. To say it is lizard tongues severed-flicking between my teeth. He said, “do it again.” the picture is not coming out in words.
L.V.Newc
scorn. it’s like corn, but with an s. and a lot meaner than corn.
Kate
i dont know what thi s means, but i really like corn1 some times i like to eat it in little bits,and sometimes i like to eat it in the cob.
Melosa
i think this makes me thi k of corn i like corn it is sweet and crunchy at the same time. it is hard, you can break it in to two or three maybe even four!
harleen
Oh shame. Shame on you, shame on me for having raised you to be this loose. Shame on physical indulgences you can’t control, the zest for life you must not have, the skirts you wear, too short, the platform wedges you wear too high. Shame on ever really feeling the need for a rock hard softness slipped between a wet place between two strong little thighs. No remorse. No regrets.
The man scorn his wife as she had burnt the toast.
“Why do you always have to screw things up?” He ranted, “every day i come home from work and you always seem to find a way to make a bad day worse.”
Eric Gaulin
I laughed at her, at her fumbling attempts to find a man who would think she was worth the price of a pint. A tiny part of me felt bad, but she was so out of her element that she would never succeed. She would need help, and soon.
Jennifer Shew
Scorn. This feeling is familiar to me on more that one level. I feel it seeping out of me, for problems put upon me, and I feel it seeping in me from problems I have put upon her. This scorn is something that lingers and festers, coming and going as it pleases with each moment a missed chance for retribution.
Jams
Elijah… we sang it in choir. “Mark how the scorner derideth us.”
Morgan
knowing what I know
feeling what I feel
dreaming these dreams together
I fear others’ scorn
I fear the loss I could know
the heartache I could endure
yet I cannot stop this feeling, this knowing
this dream
he looked at her. he felt instant sadness. the lover he had dedicated the last six years to, just came home extra late and spilled the news that she has a secret mistress. He wanted to scorn her but thought there was no use.
Who is to scorn? The thought came to her as she strolled down the boardwalk in her outrageous garb. The looks were undeniable. she wished she could pretend she was used to it by now, but in truth, she wasn. nor would she probably ever be.
Guinivere
She looked at her with a scornful glance, “You don’t get it, do you?” the tears began to gather up in her eyes, so tempting to let them fall.
“I do get it! That’s the thing! You always think that no one else lives life like you, but everyone is suffering!”
Katie
The scorn in their eyes would haunt me all my days. The night before I had been the most amazing creature in a thousand worlds, loved and adored from coast to coast. Then, well…you never want to see dirty laundry aired and this was worse than some. Adoration turned to incredulity turned to scorn and I had lost them and myself.
i dont know the meaning of dis word but i have definetly heard it. lets see wat awl its about…between there are so many words i still need to know. Scorn means i guess something negative.
jai
Her face showed the scorn she felt towards the one who held the key. How did she let it happen again, after promising herself the last time this would not happen. She turned around and left the room. With the tools from her books and encouragment from her friends, she spoke gentle quiet words to her soul, making one more promise that this would nev happen once again.
Crisnole
It reminds Chelsie of corn.
Jackie Lily Murple
This word always reminds me of a beautiful song, that Suzanne Vega once wrote. I don’t remember, what it’s called. I think, it’s about a biblical scene.
There are so many things that I feel myself scorning, but why? I have no room to scorn. Somehow, though, scorn is something that is as freely traded as money, possibly even more than love or kindness. How can the scorn be stopped? Its presence is purely destructive.
“I have been remiss in not returning your calls. Please don’t worry,” she said. “It is not because of anything you did or didn’t do, just that I have been busy. Setting up my new project properly is taking time. I have had to let some people go who were underperforming.”
To listen to her was to be rasped with contempt and salted with scorn and pity in equal parts. I could only do it on a good day. The universe subjugated was what she saw through her eyes and she was on a mission to make it a fit place for her type of people. I felt like roadkill stuck to the back wheel of a juggeraut she was driving aimed at the horizon.
I looked at him. Nothing could describe how scornful I felt. I despised him and all that he stood for. All I had asked him to do was to give me the necessary information. Even that was too much for him without lying. Why does he constantly lie? Is there no other way that he can interact with people? It’s as if he is always afraid of saying the worng thing so he m,akes something up or denies what he ahs been doing.
Aha! she doth scorn my integrity
my character
the fiber of my being
with every jab she makes
every assumption
fostered under the fires of her anger
her bitter renown
In my younger years my third grade teacher would scorn my misspellings on a vocabulary test.
When I decided to become a teacher at 55 I was met with a lot of scorn from classmates. They thought I was too old to make a difference.
“Don’t you DARE say that!” For a moment, I though she was going to slap me. Bust she calmed her temper. “You are not worthless. Your not!”
“Please, your only making me feel worse.” I turned my back. “Just forget me, okay. You don’t need me and I… I don’t need you.”
No matter what she does, she can still feel it. The scornful glare of her mother, disapproving of every little thing she does. There’s no escape, no way out besides suffocation.
It was scorn. They talked, whispered, and sneered about those people who’s lives were too insignificant to be of importance to them. If they’d have only known that those people weren’t any different than they were.
Sherlock stole glances across the top of his textbook at John as he read, processing both the written information and several other trains of thought simultaneously. The older man was curled into his armchair with a thick quilt and a mug of tea, watching the news. Some stories brought an anxious crinkle to the doctor’s brow, while others had his nodding thoughtfully. Suddenly, John’s face shadowed into a scowl of scorn at the telly’s information. It was strange for Sherlock to see this expression on the face which he had become so accustomed to seeing in a state of kindness and concern. The detective couldn’t even remember the last time he’d seen John get angry any anyone other than himself, and never before with this shade of disrespect and dismissal.
Out of curiosity, Sherlock turned his gaze to the story at hand. There was a female behind an anchor’s desk, strawberry blonde and of slightly above-average aesthetic values. Sherlock knew that this woman was very much John’s type, so she couldn’t possibly be the issue of dissent. He diverted another fraction of his attention to the subject of her speech. “…while amazing in the obscurity of his range of knowledge, seems to display some typical symptoms of Aspberger’s, and in extreme cases, even Psychopathy, as accounted by a colleague from the Scotland Yard.”
The scene cut to a video clip of Sally Donovan in her uniform, a microphone pressed to her face. “Yeah, he’s insane,” she quipped dismissively, “The only thing that makes him happy is a good murder. I wouldn’t be surprised to see him switch fields in the future, if you know what I mean.”
The anchorwoman reappeared at her desk, with a cutaway in the corner showing that beloved photo of Sherlock ducking away behind a deerstalker. “Well there you have it, folks. If you’ve got a question that needs answered, Sherlock Holmes is your man… so long as it’s gruesome, obscure, or both.” The channel quickly switched gears and went on to cover the latest football match.
Sherlock flickered his gaze back over to John, who seemed to be positively seething. “How DARE they?” He growled around clenched teeth, fingers digging into the plush arms of his chair.
Sherlock only chuckled. “You really are too sensitive when it comes to the media,” he prodded playfully, “If anything that was quite good publicity, and may even help thin out the more mundane queries we get. Actually,” now that Sherlock paused to recount the few other times he’d paid attention to local media, “As far as news stories go, it was one of the more accurate I’ve seen.”
John grumbled softly but said no more, not bothering to correct Sherlock about the media being what he was sensitive about.
I hated myself for allowing myself to lose the control I had fought so hard to attain. It was like this substance and the accompanying feeling were all it took to forget I loved myself. Or at least convinced my conscious that I did.
The table was beautifully adorned with floral centre pieces placed at regular intervals down the middle of the long, solemn table. I leaned forward a little so I could catch the girls on either side of me in my periphery. I was surrounded by at least twenty other girls like me. All frightened, guilty and behaving in the same strict manner, policed by the adults interspersed regularly like the centre decorations on the table. The man in front and just to the right of me threw a sudden look of scorn at the ten year old sitting opposite him. I don’t know what she had done, but his face was threatening enough to make her stop in half an instant. His forehead ridged into a half dozen furrows as he lowered his bushy eyebrows and pointed his sharp gaze at her. She took a sharp intake of breath and then seemed to disappear from behind her eyes, looking straight ahead with a blank, unaffected expression, her skin noticeably paling. Then the heavy wooden door at the end of the room silently opened. There was a flash of white noise and the girl stood, her chair loudly scratching the floorboards beneath as it was pushed away by the back of her legs. The entire room then in the span of a blink turned a bright, painful white.
Scorn sounds like acorn. I don’t know why I thought about it. Weird. My time is running out. 5… 4… 3… oops!
I scorn you, you moon of treacherous pearls. To say it is lizard tongues severed-flicking between my teeth. He said, “do it again.” the picture is not coming out in words.
scorn. it’s like corn, but with an s. and a lot meaner than corn.
i dont know what thi s means, but i really like corn1 some times i like to eat it in little bits,and sometimes i like to eat it in the cob.
i think this makes me thi k of corn i like corn it is sweet and crunchy at the same time. it is hard, you can break it in to two or three maybe even four!
Oh shame. Shame on you, shame on me for having raised you to be this loose. Shame on physical indulgences you can’t control, the zest for life you must not have, the skirts you wear, too short, the platform wedges you wear too high. Shame on ever really feeling the need for a rock hard softness slipped between a wet place between two strong little thighs. No remorse. No regrets.
The man scorn his wife as she had burnt the toast.
“Why do you always have to screw things up?” He ranted, “every day i come home from work and you always seem to find a way to make a bad day worse.”
I laughed at her, at her fumbling attempts to find a man who would think she was worth the price of a pint. A tiny part of me felt bad, but she was so out of her element that she would never succeed. She would need help, and soon.
Scorn. This feeling is familiar to me on more that one level. I feel it seeping out of me, for problems put upon me, and I feel it seeping in me from problems I have put upon her. This scorn is something that lingers and festers, coming and going as it pleases with each moment a missed chance for retribution.
Elijah… we sang it in choir. “Mark how the scorner derideth us.”
knowing what I know
feeling what I feel
dreaming these dreams together
I fear others’ scorn
I fear the loss I could know
the heartache I could endure
yet I cannot stop this feeling, this knowing
this dream
he looked at her. he felt instant sadness. the lover he had dedicated the last six years to, just came home extra late and spilled the news that she has a secret mistress. He wanted to scorn her but thought there was no use.
he eyed her up to down, seizing her with a frown. “Why did you tell me that?”
she looked at him blankly. “because you didn’t love me back then.”
he scoffed at her with scorn. how pathetic
Who is to scorn? The thought came to her as she strolled down the boardwalk in her outrageous garb. The looks were undeniable. she wished she could pretend she was used to it by now, but in truth, she wasn. nor would she probably ever be.
She looked at her with a scornful glance, “You don’t get it, do you?” the tears began to gather up in her eyes, so tempting to let them fall.
“I do get it! That’s the thing! You always think that no one else lives life like you, but everyone is suffering!”
The scorn in their eyes would haunt me all my days. The night before I had been the most amazing creature in a thousand worlds, loved and adored from coast to coast. Then, well…you never want to see dirty laundry aired and this was worse than some. Adoration turned to incredulity turned to scorn and I had lost them and myself.
i dont know the meaning of dis word but i have definetly heard it. lets see wat awl its about…between there are so many words i still need to know. Scorn means i guess something negative.
Her face showed the scorn she felt towards the one who held the key. How did she let it happen again, after promising herself the last time this would not happen. She turned around and left the room. With the tools from her books and encouragment from her friends, she spoke gentle quiet words to her soul, making one more promise that this would nev happen once again.
It reminds Chelsie of corn.
This word always reminds me of a beautiful song, that Suzanne Vega once wrote. I don’t remember, what it’s called. I think, it’s about a biblical scene.
There are so many things that I feel myself scorning, but why? I have no room to scorn. Somehow, though, scorn is something that is as freely traded as money, possibly even more than love or kindness. How can the scorn be stopped? Its presence is purely destructive.
scorn is not in my mind
I regard that person as scorn. Everything. Just everything about that person isn’t right. That person isn’t worth my time nor my efforts.
“I have been remiss in not returning your calls. Please don’t worry,” she said. “It is not because of anything you did or didn’t do, just that I have been busy. Setting up my new project properly is taking time. I have had to let some people go who were underperforming.”
To listen to her was to be rasped with contempt and salted with scorn and pity in equal parts. I could only do it on a good day. The universe subjugated was what she saw through her eyes and she was on a mission to make it a fit place for her type of people. I felt like roadkill stuck to the back wheel of a juggeraut she was driving aimed at the horizon.
I looked at him. Nothing could describe how scornful I felt. I despised him and all that he stood for. All I had asked him to do was to give me the necessary information. Even that was too much for him without lying. Why does he constantly lie? Is there no other way that he can interact with people? It’s as if he is always afraid of saying the worng thing so he m,akes something up or denies what he ahs been doing.