I read some of my stories recently and thought, 'How in the hell did I get away with that?' I had some really raw cynicism in some of them.
quote by Carl Barks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Related quotes
Recently
RECENTLY
by : Jim Croce
Used to be that I could see a reason to be happy cause I was free
But then, recently it seems Ive been lettin your memry get to me
Used to be that I could pretend that I wasnt really hurt back then
But then, recently it seems Ive been lettin your memry get to me
Cause Memries can be friends or they can take you to a place
that you never thought youd be again
And take you to a place that you never ever thought that you would see again.
Memries can be friends or they can take you to a place
that you never thought youd be again
And take you to a place that you never ever thought that you would see again.
Doesnt matter now who was wrong
The future is tomorrow cause the past is gone
And Im Findin that Im not as strong as I thought that I used to be
Cause recently it seems Ive been let-tin your memry geet to me.
song performed by by Jim Croce
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Stories We Could Tell
By: john b. sebastian
1974
Talkin to myself again
Wonderin if this travellin is good
Is there somethin else a doin
Wed be doin if we could
Chorus:
But ah, the stories we could tell
And if it all blows up and goes to hell
I wish that we could sit upon a bed in some motel
Listen to the stories we could tell
Stared at that guitar in that museum in tennessee
Nameplate on the glass brought back twenty melodies
Scars upon the face told of all the times he fell
Singin all the stories he could tell
Chorus:
Ah, the stories he could tell
And Ill bet you it still rings like a bell
I wish that we could sit upon a bed in some motel
And listen to the stories it could tell
So if youre on the road trackin down your every night
Playin for a livin beneath brightly colored lights
And if you ever wonder why you ride the carousel
You do it for the stories you can tell
Ah, the stories we could tell
And if it all blows up and goes to hell
I wish that we could sit upon a bed in some motel
Just listen to the stories we could tell
Coda:
Yes, I wish that we could sit upon a bed in some motel
Listen to the stories it could tell
song performed by by Jimmy Buffett
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Stories We Could Tell
Talkin to myself again
Wondering if this travelin is good
Is there something better wed be doing if we could
And oh the stories we could tell
And if this all blows up and goes to hell
I can still see us sittin on the bed in some motel
Listenin to the stories we could tell
Remember that guitar in a museum in tennessee
And the nameplate on the glass brought back twenty melodies
And the scratches on the face
Told of all the times he fell
Singin every story he could tell
And oh the stories it could tell
And I bet you it still rings like a bell
And I wish we could sit back on the bed in some motel
And listen to the stories we could tell
So if youre on the road tracking down here every night
And youre singin for a livin neath the brightly colored lights
And if you ever wonder why you ride this carousel
You did it for the stories you could tell
And oh the stories we could tell
And if this all blows up and goes to hell
I can still see us sittin on the bed in some motel
Listenin to the stories we could tell
I can still see us sittin on the bed in some motel
Listenin to the stories we could tell
song performed by by Tom Petty
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Some Stories
some stories
about ourselves
are also the stories of
themselves
and then we write
these stories and
pretend that these are
but some short stories
from our mind
now in different names
and places
we read them and then
we wish that some of
these short stories
are not true at all
sometimes for those
we want to be
we want to believe
them to be true
wishes and hopes and
regrets, what if? what if i
chose that rather than this?
we poets write about pain
and joys and we tell sometimes
that we only fake them
deep inside we are silent
we prefer just to be left alone
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Faded Pages
Recently I started retyping
a manuscript of short stories
I had written twenty years ago.
The pages were faded;
too much time being opened to the sun.
As I typed, I smiled
at the things I had written
and the dialogue I had created.
The stories are about a cat
and looking at the world
through his eyes and thoughts.
I had even created him a language
that I had to write a glossary
at the back of the book to explain
what some of the phrases meant.
There is a vast array of characters
and most have a funny turn.
I also remember what prompted me
to write the stories long ago.
My original intention was to write
one story and one story only,
but a friend of mine at the time
persuaded me to write another and another.
Before long, a volume was finished
with enough stories to start another.
From a one off story I have written over sixty now
about the cat and all his friends.
Now as I flick through these faded pages,
which I haven’t read in years,
I find myself being reunited
with many long lost friends.
26 January 2009
poem by David Harris
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My little book
blind as I was, deaf as my friend yet! have
gone as furthest as the universe, I thought
that was only a great dream of my past
laughing me seems to easy, for once I was
a little child is always a child, it was the day
where my father and mother hold me so tight,
closing my bulging eyes as they read, telling
some fabulous stories and then gradually falls
my attentive ears down to my sight and there
no more
all comes to meet my fantastic imagination,
making my childhood memories filled it all, with
what is all remembered is not what it makes, for
what ever is heard now has gone as it is done
books tells me different stories, that relates my
ways, for I taste of what is the past and today, simply
I know that hearing is not reading and reading is
always remembering
my little book paved me the way that in my little
room I will be free....read and read and read...the
only way to visit and see, of what is yesterday for
the future belongs today.....and reading always
become part of me
poem by Antonio Liao
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I think we too often make choices based on the safety of cynicism, and what we're lead to is a life not fully lived. Cynicism is fear, and it's worse than fear - it's active disengagement.
Stories About Home
I lived once in the North
And for a while, way in the South
I have some stories... that'll
Tear a man's heart out
These are the one's
I numbered ten... eleven...and twelve...
They moved so fast...
I ended living... in living Hell
But those that I numbered one thru nine...
They let the world see...why... my eyes..
My heart...
Will never again shine
I know It's hard sometimes to live
Where you can't see the sun...
Because of all that... endless rain...
I look to see.. how too... help others
Because I have lived...every kind of pain
So I write the stories...
Some are good
But often... some are very bad
They often leave hearts torn....
Spilling eyes... so sad...
And sometimes... I'll talk about the incredibly bad
But can you see the purpose...of writing
These stories... these poems...
Through the tears.... the weeping... and crying...
It's just my heart....
Trying to find a way...to move back home...
So to anyone whom read these stories. They're what I write.
They're the words of what I feel. They're the stories about wounds,
about that life, my family, about souls that never seem to heal.
They're the words of truth, they help with what I feel. For these stories
are the cause of tears...that just wont end...they're the stories that are
impossibe to bear.
They are the stoires of my family, abuse, of damage
and how love was not spared....
So many stories that'll never disappear
A soul covered with scars
Of sadness that fills a heart
That burns each time those hate words...
And abuse that breaks it apart
Clyde Grant Bryson
poem by Clyde Bryson
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I think Ronald Reagan was one of the great presidents, period, not just recently. I thought he had the demeanor. I thought he had the bearing. I thought he had the thought process.
quote by Donald Trump
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I'd usually read the Bible a lot. Read little short Bible stories. And today, whenever I give speeches, I bring up a few of those Bible stories, because those are inspirations to me.
quote by Herschel Walker
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Whale Of A Poem
Recently,
As stories go,
A tale was told,
About an old man,
And a fish,
He really wasn't a real fish!
He was a whale you know!
Anyways,
It seems that fish shallowed the man,
And inside the fish he did live,
Seven days and seven nights.
Oh what a fright,
That man did go through,
He inside of a fish,
Could have easily ended up his dish.
That story although a whopper,
I thought could not have been top,
Except in the second grade,
A student chimed in,
Oh great, now I know where my dad has been!
poem by Nadalia Bagratuni
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The Cause of His Dark Side
I think I’m losing my grip again,
and I thought I was doing so well,
but this morning I spoke with a shadow
who had recently returned from hell.
Apparently hell is completely empty,
with neither night or day.
No sky above or ground below;
there’s nothing, but a mist of grey.
No fiery flames to burn or blister
no torment, or torturous pain.
No one to shout or to complain to
and no one who you can blame.
No one to explain your situation,
or to condemn you for doing wrong.
No contact from the evil powers,
or any sweet angelic song.
In another life he was far from perfect
and maybe he had to pay,
but several life times in nothingness
was the cause of his dark side today.
poem by Orlando Belo
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Stories
Through every window, we look out
what we see on the other side
holds many stories waiting to unfold.
Stories of great achievements
within someone’s life.
Stories of gathering love
found with in open arms.
Stories of perusing heartaches
where someone has gone away.
Stories a million fold
that surround every living thing.
Stories we are not aware of,
but happen before our eyes.
Stories to share with all
from those who can see them unfold.
The next time you look out a window
try and see what is really there,
the stories that are everywhere.
26 July 2009
poem by David Harris
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I must have been 3 years old or less, and I remember paging through these comics, trying to figure out the stories. I couldn't read the words, so I made up my own stories.
quote by Daniel Clowes
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Stories
If you were alive today
what stories woud you tell me?
Stories of what it's like without me
or of what comes after this?
Or would you hold back
all those things
and play upon my heartstrings,
then give me one more kiss?
I've often wondered if there is
a memory lane for lovers
where thought and memory covers
all our times of bliss?
If you were alive today
those stories you would bring me
would thrill me and please me
Your stories I still miss.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Fixed Within It and Will Not Leave
The thought of it is easy to read.
That is the intent.
As if it had been concieved.
And for you meant,
To exist and breathe.
Had it not been composed...
None of it you would believe.
And that is why each word of this...
Has been selected,
For you to digest.
Think about it and re-read!
And while you are doing that...
Think of it as something you thought easy,
To read.
Then think of it as something nonexisting.
You can't can you.
Because this was given life to breathe.
And each time it is read...
It is in your head!
Fixed within it and will not leave!
And your thought of it at first was easy.
Why should that be?
When I took my time to insure you'd be pleased.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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cn U rd ths? Its nt gd nws...
The National Literacy Trust in Britain
did a survey and
- yes, you guessed -
57% read 'only a bit' or not at all
and 25% of the older ones said
they had no intention to
read any more than this
So what do they read when
they read?
Well, mags,
and websites
and txt msgs of course
and jokes,
and TV books and mags
and e-mails
and eighth on the list comes fiction
that's made-up stories, right?
right
then comix ninth
then newspapers well
they're just for people
who don't have TV and
don't mind waiting 12 hours
to read the news put that tenth
what's that? poetry?
sorry would you spell that
oh poetry nah
girls said, they read
to find out how other people live
and feel and
to help them understand
more about themselves
boys said, they read
because they have to and
because it helps them
get a job so
some old farts might say
put up a sign
civilisation's postponed until further notice
but it may all work out
well it'll have to
poem by Michael Shepherd
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History?
Has history taught us nothing
but tales and ancient lies?
All wrapped up in stories
not told us by the wise?
Told by the vicars who consecrated death
Told by the rulers
with power in their breath.
Passed on in written words
in books the masses read,
never questioned, never disputed
in the minds they lead.
Slanted stories still present
right to our present day.
Foes of peace seen as heroes
in ungodly ways
and as we live the history writers
will pen each blazing act
as benificent for these difficult times,
more fiction than true fact.
So those who follow in our steps
will read our history book
and what they read will be fantasy
with a different look.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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11-15-09***- - I Miss Mirth
I've recently taken a long hard look
To see what's missing in this world
Things seem to be getting worse
What is making modern life so cold
Thinking back - - - what did we used to have
That made us eager to get out of bed
What did we have then
That was bouncing around in our head
I think it was the potential for mirth
I awoke expecting some joke to come
I knew a friend or my uncle would dropp by
Or I'd hear a story from an old bum
Sometimes a hobo's stories were best
He's tell us of his travels by rail
And for a nickel
Of lands he'd set sail
But each story always had a good laugh
I was expecting meriment every day
Not just on Christmas Eve
When did I lose this way
It was others making up stories
Just to get my money
Didn't create mirth
Those stories weren't funny
Whether told by my church
Or handed out as financial advice
There is no smile on my face
As I look at the resulta of the roll of modern dice
poem by Tom J. Mariani
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I've read short stories that are as dense as a 19th century novel and novels that really are short stories filled with a lot of helium.
quote by Lynn Abbey
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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