words quietly tired, paragrah i've been working on Options

[RiddleMeWonders]

Among the memories that are buried here, one reaches up and breaks through the net of grass upon it. The smell of a pipe hovers in my nostrils, placed there by the memory launched. The blurriness of the room is in my eyes, seeing the flannel, the dark pants. What didn’t belong was the glass jar; ever so clear on the desk. It held a wildflower. My eyes held it tightly in their vision. It wasn’t particularly beautiful, but it was better than the reality of the rest of the room. The words seeking out my ears, that I never really understood until they grew louder and hands found my arms, said simply “Leave. Leave now.” I looked up, but when I looked back down at the jar, the wild flower was just as invisible as the rest of the room. The hands on my arms guided me out, placed me in a car, and I had to promise to wait. I obeyed. Now, the first time returning, the room is just a room. Words are quietly tired and then vanish into the silence of sleeping memories. Hands no longer exist.

[mono_logue]

i like it a whole lot :)
made me think of my past memories that weren't so great but now i have a different perspective on it, hah.

[Amay]

You have an amazing way of putting the words together.
I really like it. :]

[*My Cinderella.*]

I can actually visualize this. Great job.

[RiddleMeWonders]

I'm happy to see you three enjoyed it. Thanks a lot for giving it the time of day, and your compliments.

[Ekay]

it's good. i like it. however, i do not understand it because i am very drowsy...this will get edited sometime tomorrow morning with a better response... :]


//edit:: whoaaaa, not being drowsy puts it into a completely different perspective...keep it up :]

[RiddleMeWonders]

Among the memories that are buried here, one reaches up and breaks through the net of grass upon it. The smell of a pipe hovers in my nostrils, placed there by the memory launched. The blurriness of the room is in my eyes, seeing the flannel, the dark pants. What didn’t belong was the glass jar; it was ever so clear on the desk. It held a wildflower. My eyes kept the blushing purple star-shaped petals tightly in their vision. The flower wasn't particularly beautiful, but it was better than accepting the ugliness present in the rest of the room. The words seeking out my ears, that I never really understood until they grew louder and hands found my arms, simply said, “Leave. Leave now.” I looked up. Salted water slid down my cheeks, stinging my eyes, but when I looked back down at the jar, the wild flower was just as invisible as everything else in the room. The hands on my arms guided me out, each finger a cuff around the pale flesh and fragile meated bone. They placed me in a car, and I had to promise to wait. I obeyed. Now, the first time returning, the room is just a room. Words are quietly tired and then vanish into the silence of sleeping memories. Hands no longer exist. But the feeling of being regretted as a part of someone's life lays in my spirit, and pulls it down every time I remember. And I will remember it forever.