Deanna asked me to do one of these a LONG time ago, and since there isn't one right now, I'll throw one out.

Write a piece that has a central theme, message, or motif of being pushed. Interpret that as you may, but it must include the line "every noun has it's adjective".

Ha.

i walk a tightrope;
i am a balance-beam master
teetering carefully,
(tip-tip toe, tip-tip toe)
fighting against their constant
non-gravitational push/pull
towards failure.

i can imagine myself hideous:
a dead flower, a dying girl
filled with a battered soul.
i can imagine myself pushed
towards the wine-dark sea
like a small boat, tossed
in a tempest.

(and every noun,
my dear boy,
has its adjective-
flower:girl :: dead:dying
boat:sea :: small:wine-dark
soul:i :: battered:hideous)

life draws me
death calls me
hopelessness takes over
time traps me
space chokes me
no way out to discover
stars blind me
ocean drowns me
no chance to recover
past haunts me
future scares me
love gone never over
thoughts puzzle me
words confuse me
before the page is over
subject me
verb "to love" me
sentence never over
no-one reads me
rhyme loses me
so
every noun has its adjective
and mine is "yours"

'Every noun has it's adjective' is symptomnatic of everything
that's wrong with teh interweb
O rly?
Ya rly
See what I mean the way
It confuses, interdiction, infilitrating punctuation
Misspelt words and phrases dislocated
Thrust naked and ashamed, blinking in the white
Lights because someone quotes them, links
Dictionary.com
Such an ironic gesture, that's partly my point
Like this, not criticism, not to embarass
To do something creative with what I was given
Not to be a dick

Richard approached from the north side. The building, so bleak and ubiquitous, almost
seemed to sneer at him with its dark shutters like furrowed brows and arched doorway
like a curved upper lip. The whole scene loomed even larger in reality than it did in his
mind. The only thing it couldn’t detract from was the sun, which was as bright as he’d
seen it since last summer. It was the kind of day where all you wanted to do was sit on
the grass, guitar in lap and play Cat Stevens songs until you lose your voice or your mind-
whichever comes first.
Actually Richard often thought he may be insane. Partly because of how disconnected he
felt from everybody else, like there was something wrong with him that made him
‘different’- and partly because of the lengths to which he would go to secure his desires.
Or, to put it bluntly, to escape from what he didn’t want.
What he didn’t want-
What his parents wanted. They were too god-damned cautious. That wasn’t in his nature.
Richard wanted to get on a plane and fly to some far away place. Spontaneously go and
‘see it all’. At least some of ‘it’, anyway. More than he could see from here... out beyond
the horizon, over the hills, around the corner... down that valley where it dips so low then
up... up! Speeding through the atmosphere in some heavy winged machine (or tin can) to
emerge on the other side of the world! Thousands of miles away. His parents supported
this- to an extent. Probably they would prefer he got a good job and settled down. Not too
far from home. Still, they’d help him plan out the trip- never really believing he would
actually go through with it. It all had to be thought through. Booked. He’d need to check
in with them daily, and he could never be ALONE. God forbid!
Richard felt like his plans- and they were his alone because after all it was HIS life- were
being turned into his parent’s plans. He had half a mind to leave now, walk straight out the front door. He fully intended to return, of course; eventually. After he’d chased the white tail down the rabbit hole and discovered what delights or disasters were to be found on the other side.
To sit on the grass in a park in a city where no one knew his name, and strum his guitar
until a mass of curious pigeons amassed, and in his dreams they would rise to the skies
with the lift of his arm and swan-dive to earth with the drop of his hand.
To never feel self-conscious again.
Richard shook his head and let all of his thoughts escape with a short, sharp exhalation of
breath. He winced as letting them go almost seemed to make his lungs contract too far.
Turning to the back door of the building, he struck a match and tried, futilely, to warm
his fingers in its glow. Every noun has it's adjective; a storm was gathering and he needed sleep before his shift started in the morning.