I was sitting there with a towl trying to clean up all my messes in the bathroom. the cloth of the rag soaking up all the blood, the dna getting trapped in the intriquate thread of the cloth and my life.
i have some on my body. i should get them checked out, i dont know why i havent. old people have blotches on their skin. I’ve heard that they are liver spots. My mother in law had blotches all over her body. my husband has some too. i should look into it.
look really really interesting in the right light, but if produced in a different batch, they might turn out a little bit soggy, and everyone knows that soggy blotches always in in sadness… and when the sad boy cries the jury votes for the the greatest man who ever lived. At last there is a victor! the blotches who were voted the best color in the universe, it was written that they will never know the story of the blotch who never cried snatch.
Skin gets blotchy if you stay in the sun too long. One time I got blotches all over my face and skin like chest area because I had to read a sonnet in front of my class. It was so embarrassing. I wish that my professor would not have made me do that. He did, however, forget my name today on the first day of class even though he is my advisor and I had him last semester.
Dirty and disgusting. I hate them and I’m jealous of all those girls who are born with perfect concrete skin, that no matter how long they stay out in the sun or get exposed to pollution their pores are numb and their face is totally fine.
The blotches that covered the surface of his skin made me wondered how he tortures himself. We all have our secrets but I was curious as to his. No one else’s just his.
Crying was never for the weak, but it might as well have been. I cried so often over everything between us that my strength sapped out of me in saltwater.
blotches. i think of the ink blot test. i always hated doing that, i felt self-conscious about it. i felt like they were looking for a specific answer, and i would fret over it. and i feel as if they are judging me based off of what i think of a picture. how fair is that?
The traveling players rolled their carriage into the market square and began to set up. A crowd quickly gathered. In the back of the carriage, Roberto and Pierpaolo began to don their costumes and Antonio also put on his gown. Out front, Silvio blew the trumpet to signify the show was about to begin, then he pulled the curtain aside. Antonio shrieked and dropped his rouge, “Close the curtain! Close the curtain! I’m still covering my blotches!”
The blotches of paint fell on the negative space; which, in truth, took up more room than the actual art. I thought of the cruel words of a friend, who let me know in just a few simple words that his opinion of my art wasn’t the highest. And what was I hoping for, I wonder; the blue streaks to turn into the ocean? The gray smears into the sky? I was fooling myself into thinking that my hand could create art; but tacking on more blotches was easier than giving up, and giving up was never a talent of mine anyways.
She had been teased about her blotches for as long as she could remember, she avoided mirrors at all costs and rarely attended any social situation not required from threats her mother.
blotches? what could I possibly say about blotches? blotches of ink? paint? I’m not even sure what a blotch is to be entirely honest. I think it just refers to a … well, a patch I guess would be the best way to describe a blotch. It’s like a mark left from it. I’ll have to look it up in the dictionary after.
The deadly mushrooms were covered in the tiniest of phosphorescent blotches that the natives would pick off tenderly and add to the soupy concoction. The liquid turned black, then green, then brown and became gooey.
Blotches, I see them everywhere. All along the body of that disgusting man he sits at the end of the counter. Why do we allow such trash in here? A bar in the middle of nowhere though, not many customers are expected. He’s so nasty that old man, something out of a horror movie is what can describe him. I can’t even stand the smell coming off of his gross body.
Blotches of ink stain the papers, the sheets, the eyes of figures hastily constructed in thoughtless doodles. It’s the catharsis unseen, unheard, and unappreciated. The end.
I saw the tell-tale pink blotches of embarrassment appear on her cheeks as everyone turned to stare at her. She was the type of girl that was scared to stand in front of a group of people. She was the type of girl who stayed silent because she didn’t like to be noticed.
Faces. How many faces have blotches. They would always distract me as I would talk to a chubby pale skinned girl… Her face consumed by the red blotches. I wonder what who behind those blotches.
Spread down my cheeks
And color my life
There are blotches
From the laughter
Of course
The moments that my whole face turned red,
and then purple,
Because I simply couldn’t breathe
But more prominent
Right now
Are the colors
That my face turns
When I cry
And my nose puffs up,
And even though I’m missing you,
I’m glad you’re not here to see me.
A now dried stain; the sort of unevenly formed bit of coloring usually found on the shirt of an unkempt male college student bellying up to the cafeteria bar. They’re generally comprised of spilled coffee, dorito powder and undiluted apathy.
There were lots of blotches all over the page; black ones, blue ones, smudged and staining what had once been a beautiful piece of literature. The rain had done its part to destroy the script, and the large blotches of ink that faded into one another were a good testament to this. I sighed, staring at the blank page ruefully.
They are maps that connect the hideous who desire to hide from the pecking birds and the insane order by which they screech through us and our hollow ribcages. They rain down their colors and we bleed trails so the rest can follow us, become lost and as confused among the trees with forgotten names.
Blotches of ink covered his hands. He’d been writing all night, but the ferocity in his face had slowly dimmed as the sun rose, and the shadows faded into gold. He had worked his hands sore, and yet he had nothing for it. For that was what covered the letter he was to send her: nothing.
Spots of paint in the dark dot my memory like fireflies. They keep me warm as I sit here, even now, wondering when everything changed. THe blotches of my life fill my head, and keep me guessing.
Ink stains tell me what I should have known all along. Truths rooted deep down inside of me. And now staring at this paper, they are coaxed out to stare back at me – like looking in a dirty mirror, scrubbing, but never able to get it clean.
The world will one day be covered with irreplacable splotches, blotches of imperfection based on reality. One day, the world will become a black covered ball of sludge, filled to the brim with human indifference, and we won’t notice until we are drowning in it.
Blotches are little spots on skin that appear when you start to get older, they are a clear sign of age and something i hope to never have. It also brings to mind the term blotting which is what many women do when they have just put on lipstick and need to get the access of it off so they blot a napkin thus making a blotch.
There were small stains everywhere. Her skin was blotchy and red. there was no way to really tell whether it was a product of nature, or of the drugs. but it didn’t really matter. there were stains on the rugs and carpets. on her hands and on her dress. holes to match.
Occasionally when I have those disgusting blotches on my chest that come from nervousness, I pray to god that it never happens again. It always does. I can never seem to keep myself quite clm enough to prevent them. Its like theres this little part of me that feeds on anxiousness and is always waiting for the next big struggle.
The blotches on her face
felt like puddle
on a rainy day,
mud slopping on the soles of shoes,
leaves soggy on the grass,
gentle breeze
harsh and crass.
The blotches on her face
felt like memories
touching her skin,
lined with pessimistic thoughts
and empty hours,
alone in a mudslide.
blotches of blood. if he thought of them like that he could hold his lunch down while he cleaned them up – some how it was more innocuous than pools. why had it come to this? why did she think this would get her what she wanted?
blotches of ink splatter the page. writers block sucks. i`ve been sitting here staring at this page for hours and i cant seem to come up with one fucking sentence. I guess i wasted all my talent five years ago when i put out my third book since i havent been able to write anything since then worth showing anyone. My eyes feel dry and tired. A glance at the clock shows me why. 5 am… when did i regress back to my eighteen year old self. i guess my vices have been wearing me out more than i thought. I lay back on my bed pushi my laptop away from me simultaneously. When did this become a chore. I`m livin the dream. Published author with tons of success. What do i have to complain about.
Blotches, the figment of imagination. They are nothing but mere blights of humanity. They serve of no purpose, and yet we all hear ourselves asking, “what are blotches?”
my body is a blister crusade of unintelligible surfaces
we move
shake
chant indifferent to the boring memoirs sent down from gods
forget me nots
pigeon toed burdens break me like spring time
hold my hand as I doubt.
and I will honor your subtle silence in these cavernous remedies to flesh.
I was sitting there with a towl trying to clean up all my messes in the bathroom. the cloth of the rag soaking up all the blood, the dna getting trapped in the intriquate thread of the cloth and my life.
i have some on my body. i should get them checked out, i dont know why i havent. old people have blotches on their skin. I’ve heard that they are liver spots. My mother in law had blotches all over her body. my husband has some too. i should look into it.
look really really interesting in the right light, but if produced in a different batch, they might turn out a little bit soggy, and everyone knows that soggy blotches always in in sadness… and when the sad boy cries the jury votes for the the greatest man who ever lived. At last there is a victor! the blotches who were voted the best color in the universe, it was written that they will never know the story of the blotch who never cried snatch.
Skin gets blotchy if you stay in the sun too long. One time I got blotches all over my face and skin like chest area because I had to read a sonnet in front of my class. It was so embarrassing. I wish that my professor would not have made me do that. He did, however, forget my name today on the first day of class even though he is my advisor and I had him last semester.
Dirty and disgusting. I hate them and I’m jealous of all those girls who are born with perfect concrete skin, that no matter how long they stay out in the sun or get exposed to pollution their pores are numb and their face is totally fine.
The blotches that covered the surface of his skin made me wondered how he tortures himself. We all have our secrets but I was curious as to his. No one else’s just his.
Crying was never for the weak, but it might as well have been. I cried so often over everything between us that my strength sapped out of me in saltwater.
blotches. i think of the ink blot test. i always hated doing that, i felt self-conscious about it. i felt like they were looking for a specific answer, and i would fret over it. and i feel as if they are judging me based off of what i think of a picture. how fair is that?
ink blots in a therapist office
imperfections of everyday people
doesn’t mean you’re not perfect
imperfections make you beautiful
love yourself
The traveling players rolled their carriage into the market square and began to set up. A crowd quickly gathered. In the back of the carriage, Roberto and Pierpaolo began to don their costumes and Antonio also put on his gown. Out front, Silvio blew the trumpet to signify the show was about to begin, then he pulled the curtain aside. Antonio shrieked and dropped his rouge, “Close the curtain! Close the curtain! I’m still covering my blotches!”
The blotches of paint fell on the negative space; which, in truth, took up more room than the actual art. I thought of the cruel words of a friend, who let me know in just a few simple words that his opinion of my art wasn’t the highest. And what was I hoping for, I wonder; the blue streaks to turn into the ocean? The gray smears into the sky? I was fooling myself into thinking that my hand could create art; but tacking on more blotches was easier than giving up, and giving up was never a talent of mine anyways.
brown blotches
She had been teased about her blotches for as long as she could remember, she avoided mirrors at all costs and rarely attended any social situation not required from threats her mother.
blotches? what could I possibly say about blotches? blotches of ink? paint? I’m not even sure what a blotch is to be entirely honest. I think it just refers to a … well, a patch I guess would be the best way to describe a blotch. It’s like a mark left from it. I’ll have to look it up in the dictionary after.
The deadly mushrooms were covered in the tiniest of phosphorescent blotches that the natives would pick off tenderly and add to the soupy concoction. The liquid turned black, then green, then brown and became gooey.
Blotches, I see them everywhere. All along the body of that disgusting man he sits at the end of the counter. Why do we allow such trash in here? A bar in the middle of nowhere though, not many customers are expected. He’s so nasty that old man, something out of a horror movie is what can describe him. I can’t even stand the smell coming off of his gross body.
Blotches of ink stain the papers, the sheets, the eyes of figures hastily constructed in thoughtless doodles. It’s the catharsis unseen, unheard, and unappreciated. The end.
I saw the tell-tale pink blotches of embarrassment appear on her cheeks as everyone turned to stare at her. She was the type of girl that was scared to stand in front of a group of people. She was the type of girl who stayed silent because she didn’t like to be noticed.
She was invisible, and she loved it.
Faces. How many faces have blotches. They would always distract me as I would talk to a chubby pale skinned girl… Her face consumed by the red blotches. I wonder what who behind those blotches.
Spread down my cheeks
And color my life
There are blotches
From the laughter
Of course
The moments that my whole face turned red,
and then purple,
Because I simply couldn’t breathe
But more prominent
Right now
Are the colors
That my face turns
When I cry
And my nose puffs up,
And even though I’m missing you,
I’m glad you’re not here to see me.
ink. on paper. drips. mistakes. but beautiful ones.
These are the spots on our lives that we wish we could erase. But in the end, they’re what give us our beauty and show that we’ve lived a little bit.
A now dried stain; the sort of unevenly formed bit of coloring usually found on the shirt of an unkempt male college student bellying up to the cafeteria bar. They’re generally comprised of spilled coffee, dorito powder and undiluted apathy.
There were lots of blotches all over the page; black ones, blue ones, smudged and staining what had once been a beautiful piece of literature. The rain had done its part to destroy the script, and the large blotches of ink that faded into one another were a good testament to this. I sighed, staring at the blank page ruefully.
They are maps that connect the hideous who desire to hide from the pecking birds and the insane order by which they screech through us and our hollow ribcages. They rain down their colors and we bleed trails so the rest can follow us, become lost and as confused among the trees with forgotten names.
Blotches of ink covered his hands. He’d been writing all night, but the ferocity in his face had slowly dimmed as the sun rose, and the shadows faded into gold. He had worked his hands sore, and yet he had nothing for it. For that was what covered the letter he was to send her: nothing.
Spots of paint in the dark dot my memory like fireflies. They keep me warm as I sit here, even now, wondering when everything changed. THe blotches of my life fill my head, and keep me guessing.
Ink stains tell me what I should have known all along. Truths rooted deep down inside of me. And now staring at this paper, they are coaxed out to stare back at me – like looking in a dirty mirror, scrubbing, but never able to get it clean.
The world will one day be covered with irreplacable splotches, blotches of imperfection based on reality. One day, the world will become a black covered ball of sludge, filled to the brim with human indifference, and we won’t notice until we are drowning in it.
Blotches are little spots on skin that appear when you start to get older, they are a clear sign of age and something i hope to never have. It also brings to mind the term blotting which is what many women do when they have just put on lipstick and need to get the access of it off so they blot a napkin thus making a blotch.
There were small stains everywhere. Her skin was blotchy and red. there was no way to really tell whether it was a product of nature, or of the drugs. but it didn’t really matter. there were stains on the rugs and carpets. on her hands and on her dress. holes to match.
Blotch is an iregular shaped spot. We find it everywhere – on the wall, on shirts, on street. Also in our mind :)
Occasionally when I have those disgusting blotches on my chest that come from nervousness, I pray to god that it never happens again. It always does. I can never seem to keep myself quite clm enough to prevent them. Its like theres this little part of me that feeds on anxiousness and is always waiting for the next big struggle.
“What do you see?”
Ink splattered the paper in random blotches, creating constellations of black stars against a stark white sky.
The blotches on her face
felt like puddle
on a rainy day,
mud slopping on the soles of shoes,
leaves soggy on the grass,
gentle breeze
harsh and crass.
The blotches on her face
felt like memories
touching her skin,
lined with pessimistic thoughts
and empty hours,
alone in a mudslide.
blotches of blood. if he thought of them like that he could hold his lunch down while he cleaned them up – some how it was more innocuous than pools. why had it come to this? why did she think this would get her what she wanted?
blotches of ink splatter the page. writers block sucks. i`ve been sitting here staring at this page for hours and i cant seem to come up with one fucking sentence. I guess i wasted all my talent five years ago when i put out my third book since i havent been able to write anything since then worth showing anyone. My eyes feel dry and tired. A glance at the clock shows me why. 5 am… when did i regress back to my eighteen year old self. i guess my vices have been wearing me out more than i thought. I lay back on my bed pushi my laptop away from me simultaneously. When did this become a chore. I`m livin the dream. Published author with tons of success. What do i have to complain about.
Blotches, the figment of imagination. They are nothing but mere blights of humanity. They serve of no purpose, and yet we all hear ourselves asking, “what are blotches?”
there were blotches on her leg. red, blue, even a purple one. they didn’t seem to be going away, but they each told a story.
my body is a blister crusade of unintelligible surfaces
we move
shake
chant indifferent to the boring memoirs sent down from gods
forget me nots
pigeon toed burdens break me like spring time
hold my hand as I doubt.
and I will honor your subtle silence in these cavernous remedies to flesh.