Some nights the sky looks like a non-stick pan
And stars are sautéed onions
Some sunrises match mountains
So well it makes me wonder if God ran out of paint
We know that life is beautiful
In ways that words can only dull
So I guess I should be happy for the things I’ll never write
She could feel the words in her head swimming around, mocking her. But she knew none of them would ever show up on her paper. all those lovely stories she wanted to write, but all them had to remain unwritten. The words just did not want to leave her mind
Jessi
So many things that have raced through my head, yet so many things have been unwritten. So many missed oppurtunities and inspirations that I’ve let slip by. And why? How? I need to work. I need to let my mind free everything that has built up. Everything that is clogging my creativity now.
Rodell
Sometimes the best stories are unwritten. Sometimes I’d rather hear them told. The best ones are the ones you see light up a relatives face and the ones that move you to tears. They are the ones you can cry at and the story will comfort you in return. And instead of being just a collection of paper, these unwritten stories are ones that breathe.
you decide. Then write about it. but never, never, ever unwrite it.
Raina
Unwritten. That’s the majority of my thoughts. The words awaiting on my tongue, dripping like nectars, uncensored honey. Unwritten is how I feel when I have so many words but I keep them locked up inside me because –what? Laziness. Lack of motivation. Not stopping to think about.
colette
It was the worst mistake of his life. They had been in fourth grade, and he was in love with her. The way to do things back then, to confess your love, was the very traditional, and very risky, love letter. He had had everything ready. Pen, paper, heart stickers. But he had never sent it. And now she was with someone else. And he was alone.
Gill
Thinking of all the things unwritten, that he could write, that he could control. Abusing power, but rewarding all the same. All the things to be written that are great, then to be unwritten. A self-confidence reflecting Van Gogh. Making something beautiful, and putting the wrong eyes on. How he could change that. Wouldn’t it be better without feeling? No pain, no greif, no saddness, no anger. But then, there would be no happiness, joy, delight, love. Which is better? To have o pain, no greif, no saddness, no anger, but also no happiness, joy, delight, or love? or to have pain, greif, sadness, anger, but to also have happiness, joy, delight and love?
Raina
Sometimes she wrote but she liked to write about other people. Her own life remained unwritten yet somehow it was tangled still in the madness of her stories of other characters. She did not need her life to be on paper declared it was her own, she only needed to see it from the perspective of another.
Kate
Unwritten words are always scratching at the back of my mind, waiting to be written for others to read.
The note stayed unwritten. The pen beside it was unused, in danger of rolling off the crooked old table and onto the floor. The coffee he’d made himself out of longstanding habit was cooling on the counter.
He felt like a coward for leaving.
He felt like a brute for staying.
The door swung shut quietly behind him.
everything is unwritten. the future, obviously, but more so, the past. winners wrote the history books. did the written past actually happen? or is it a figment of an imagination. what’s real and what isn’t? what is written cannot be trusted. it is all that remains unwritten that is the pure truth.
Kayleigh
The note was unwritten, and he couldn’t think of going back into the house and trying to explain why he was leaving. The paper was blank, the pen left unused beside it. The coffee he’d made for himself was cooling on the counter, and the kitchen light was still on.
“I’ll miss you,” he said, and meant it. But the only thing that heard him was the door as he closed it quietly behind him.
Kristen
It wasn’t right, what she was doing. But it was all she could do, wasn’t it. Tapping the pen to paper she tried to hold back the tears, the one word at the top of the paper keeping her from writing anymore. Dean, she had written. Below it she put the pen to paper again. Sam.
Im Winchester
unwritten words are like poems stuck in your mind, that you can’t share, that are always with you. It’s your burden until you can put it down on paper, for the world to see. Until then, it will always be itching at the back of your mind, always there, waiting to be written.
Liv
Holding her hand to her mouth, refusing to speak as she read the letter. Tears were slow to come, but when they did it was like they would never stop. It killed her inside, noticing the unwritten differences in his words, she also noticed the unwritten ending, the little three words that should have been there.
everything you leave unwritten is a waste. everything you think to yourself and decide it’s not good enough to keep, everything you share in the tags on your tumblr, everything you have a good idea of and explain to someone else but don’t write is an opportunity dead.
Molly
think of all the unwritten stories of people
the mothers who lost their children
the politicians breaking down in the bathroom
people lost
with their memories
unwritten
stories to be told
someone just has to write them
Rachel
każdy z nas ma swoją nieopowiedzianą historię. Nieopowiedziane wspomnienia, nieopowiedziane rany. Każdy z nas dźwiga bagaż codziennych wspomnień, i zmaga się z nimi każdej nocy. Nie wiem jak wy, przynajmniej ja. Takie jest życie, ludzie nie lubią opowiadać o sobie. Moment…
Ralph
The doors open to a scene which caused Sandra to gasp. She knew there was an unwritten rule to look the other way in this speakeasy, not just when it came to booze, but to all things illegal. But by god, the debauchery she witnessed in those first steps into this heavily guarded boys club almost made her stomach turn.
Too many words go unwritten these days. It used to be easy. It used to be me and the music and that was it. I was *golden* Not anymore though. Not today Not when I’m getting older and so damn *tired*
There are days I wish I could go back. There are days I wish I never was.
It was unwritten. Beautiful windings of everyday, tears, heartbreak, joys, glee, laughter, friendship, restoration, salvation! Such beauty – I wonder did she know? If so the world should’ve.
The unwritten rules stood between them, glaring as strongly and harshly as they did at each other. What he had suggested just wasn’t done. It hadn’t been done. In over a thousand years, there had been no such change to the recipe. But it had been suggested. It was compelling. Worst of all, was he right?
She hesitates at the first box, but slowly fills in her name, then her age, and her address. She fills in the form as completely as possible, but when she reaches the last box she stops. She has run out of lies.
My story has been left unwritten for what I deem to be, too long a span of time. The waves of memory that carry foamy emotions has dissapated to the point where I have often wondered if I can even write about it with any form of conviction and purpose. And what would be the writing without it, convition and purpose.
Some nights the sky looks like a non-stick pan
And stars are sautéed onions
Some sunrises match mountains
So well it makes me wonder if God ran out of paint
We know that life is beautiful
In ways that words can only dull
So I guess I should be happy for the things I’ll never write
She could feel the words in her head swimming around, mocking her. But she knew none of them would ever show up on her paper. all those lovely stories she wanted to write, but all them had to remain unwritten. The words just did not want to leave her mind
So many things that have raced through my head, yet so many things have been unwritten. So many missed oppurtunities and inspirations that I’ve let slip by. And why? How? I need to work. I need to let my mind free everything that has built up. Everything that is clogging my creativity now.
Sometimes the best stories are unwritten. Sometimes I’d rather hear them told. The best ones are the ones you see light up a relatives face and the ones that move you to tears. They are the ones you can cry at and the story will comfort you in return. And instead of being just a collection of paper, these unwritten stories are ones that breathe.
you decide. Then write about it. but never, never, ever unwrite it.
Unwritten. That’s the majority of my thoughts. The words awaiting on my tongue, dripping like nectars, uncensored honey. Unwritten is how I feel when I have so many words but I keep them locked up inside me because –what? Laziness. Lack of motivation. Not stopping to think about.
It was the worst mistake of his life. They had been in fourth grade, and he was in love with her. The way to do things back then, to confess your love, was the very traditional, and very risky, love letter. He had had everything ready. Pen, paper, heart stickers. But he had never sent it. And now she was with someone else. And he was alone.
Thinking of all the things unwritten, that he could write, that he could control. Abusing power, but rewarding all the same. All the things to be written that are great, then to be unwritten. A self-confidence reflecting Van Gogh. Making something beautiful, and putting the wrong eyes on. How he could change that. Wouldn’t it be better without feeling? No pain, no greif, no saddness, no anger. But then, there would be no happiness, joy, delight, love. Which is better? To have o pain, no greif, no saddness, no anger, but also no happiness, joy, delight, or love? or to have pain, greif, sadness, anger, but to also have happiness, joy, delight and love?
Sometimes she wrote but she liked to write about other people. Her own life remained unwritten yet somehow it was tangled still in the madness of her stories of other characters. She did not need her life to be on paper declared it was her own, she only needed to see it from the perspective of another.
Unwritten words are always scratching at the back of my mind, waiting to be written for others to read.
The note stayed unwritten. The pen beside it was unused, in danger of rolling off the crooked old table and onto the floor. The coffee he’d made himself out of longstanding habit was cooling on the counter.
He felt like a coward for leaving.
He felt like a brute for staying.
The door swung shut quietly behind him.
everything is unwritten. the future, obviously, but more so, the past. winners wrote the history books. did the written past actually happen? or is it a figment of an imagination. what’s real and what isn’t? what is written cannot be trusted. it is all that remains unwritten that is the pure truth.
The note was unwritten, and he couldn’t think of going back into the house and trying to explain why he was leaving. The paper was blank, the pen left unused beside it. The coffee he’d made for himself was cooling on the counter, and the kitchen light was still on.
“I’ll miss you,” he said, and meant it. But the only thing that heard him was the door as he closed it quietly behind him.
It wasn’t right, what she was doing. But it was all she could do, wasn’t it. Tapping the pen to paper she tried to hold back the tears, the one word at the top of the paper keeping her from writing anymore. Dean, she had written. Below it she put the pen to paper again. Sam.
unwritten words are like poems stuck in your mind, that you can’t share, that are always with you. It’s your burden until you can put it down on paper, for the world to see. Until then, it will always be itching at the back of your mind, always there, waiting to be written.
Holding her hand to her mouth, refusing to speak as she read the letter. Tears were slow to come, but when they did it was like they would never stop. It killed her inside, noticing the unwritten differences in his words, she also noticed the unwritten ending, the little three words that should have been there.
everything you leave unwritten is a waste. everything you think to yourself and decide it’s not good enough to keep, everything you share in the tags on your tumblr, everything you have a good idea of and explain to someone else but don’t write is an opportunity dead.
think of all the unwritten stories of people
the mothers who lost their children
the politicians breaking down in the bathroom
people lost
with their memories
unwritten
stories to be told
someone just has to write them
każdy z nas ma swoją nieopowiedzianą historię. Nieopowiedziane wspomnienia, nieopowiedziane rany. Każdy z nas dźwiga bagaż codziennych wspomnień, i zmaga się z nimi każdej nocy. Nie wiem jak wy, przynajmniej ja. Takie jest życie, ludzie nie lubią opowiadać o sobie. Moment…
The doors open to a scene which caused Sandra to gasp. She knew there was an unwritten rule to look the other way in this speakeasy, not just when it came to booze, but to all things illegal. But by god, the debauchery she witnessed in those first steps into this heavily guarded boys club almost made her stomach turn.
Too many words go unwritten these days. It used to be easy. It used to be me and the music and that was it. I was *golden* Not anymore though. Not today Not when I’m getting older and so damn *tired*
There are days I wish I could go back. There are days I wish I never was.
It was unwritten. Beautiful windings of everyday, tears, heartbreak, joys, glee, laughter, friendship, restoration, salvation! Such beauty – I wonder did she know? If so the world should’ve.
The unwritten rules stood between them, glaring as strongly and harshly as they did at each other. What he had suggested just wasn’t done. It hadn’t been done. In over a thousand years, there had been no such change to the recipe. But it had been suggested. It was compelling. Worst of all, was he right?
She hesitates at the first box, but slowly fills in her name, then her age, and her address. She fills in the form as completely as possible, but when she reaches the last box she stops. She has run out of lies.
My story has been left unwritten for what I deem to be, too long a span of time. The waves of memory that carry foamy emotions has dissapated to the point where I have often wondered if I can even write about it with any form of conviction and purpose. And what would be the writing without it, convition and purpose.
word something dead bad I don’t know what is it book story nassasary God
the whole things she wanted to say him were in her head but most of the stayed unwritten.she had secrets that he would never know.
She is mute and he is hot.
She loves him but he loves someone else
She wrote to him and he wrote to her back
But what she felt left unwritten…..