The hand sails across the page in a beautiful swooping motion, slowly fleshing out the scene. Perfectly driven, impressively accurate, the power to draw is one that should be admired by all.
i hate drawing. drawing is not my think. drawing runs in my family. weird, but i dont care at all imnot good st it or even if i am i dont care. i think brocoli is much better than drawing stuff.
When you draw something it’s calming. It sets your mind free. It helps you keep your imagination in a good state. Drawing is like breathing. It’s equally important to writing.
We draw conclusions.
Make snap decisions. But we don’t know
the color of the sky when our eyes are closed
or the gurgling of a baby still in the womb
there are thing we
cannot know
do not deserve to know
but that makes life
all the more
beautiful
I love to draw and dream of days where time stands stilll so I can fill my paper with lines that stretch and pull and draw me out, or in, whichever way I go it’s somewhere.
draw. It was a draw. Their whole life it was a draw. The daughter was a lesbian. The mother was a homophobe. The both thirsted for a loving, supportive relationship. So they fought for 60 years. Never would the acknowledge the source of their disagreement.
She sat at her desk all day and all night, with a pad of paper the colour of egg yolk and her hair around her face like a golden picture frame. She thought about all the things she had seen that week, all the things she wanted to put down into something still and silent and permanent and real – more real than the fleeting moments when suddenly the sun flashes against the window and you see everything as
She would draw about her day like people would write about their experiences. It was her way of processing her pain without having to camp out on her hurts. She did not have a lot of friends and the ones she did have did not get her need to dance with the drawing board. Since she was a little girl she found comfort into folding into a new sheet of paper and a sharpened number two pencil. They both became her companions and she would not let them go.
Johnny couldn’t hide his surprise. He hadn’t told anyone about the picture and yet, here he was watching another boy draw the exact same picture he had drawn only the day before. The same arcs and shades, the same colors and hues. He didn’t know this other boy who was replicating the exact picture he had drawn yesterday. How could the same picture be in both of their heads? How could they both draw the same place?
Drawing is something everybody can do. It’s subjective, so your “bad” may equal somebody else’s “amazing”. You can draw anything, and you can draw nothing. Simplistic or extravagant. It’s completely up to you. A piece may take you ten minutes or it may take you ten years.
Art is subjective.
It’s up to you.
I don’t like to draw… sometimes I wish I did. I wish I could draw my feelings like some people can. I guess I can write them, or I wouldn’t be here. But people say a good picture is worth a thousand words… and I’m not patient enough to write that many.
Deep breath.
Inhale. Exhale.
Shaking violently, she thrust her hand into the box, praying that the name she would draw would not be her. Couldn’t be her.
————————————————
He’s never been good with words.
Everything he says comes out wrong, doesn’t express what he’s REALLY feeling, so he learns to lock his words up and keep them inside himself.
Instead, he draws.
He doesn’t draw anything, not really. He draws everything.
He draws lines and circles and shades so precisely and his work looks like a hand from this viewpoint, but scoot four feet left, and you’re looking at a mountain.
He can’t define his drawings-can never say what they are, but something about looking at all those carefully sketched lines makes him feel free.
The game was getting very intense, only a couple of seconds till the end of the game. What was the final score? Well, it looked like it was going to be a tie. And as the opposing players try their best to win, the home team doesn’t give up, buzz buzz, it looks it’s a draw.
Draw? Seriously? That’s my damn prompt? Well crap. It did however remind me of a short poem/story I wrote in 8th grade…..wonder where the fuck I put the damn thing. Shit 60 seconds of this word is gonna kill me. Grr. Does that count as a word? No friggin idea. Well what else can I write about and I like to draw. I like to paint. I like to design clothes, stud them, bedazzle them and iron appliques to them. Cus, you know, I just do. Or whatever. Totally considering copy and pasting at random until my sixty second are up and I am also trying to think up longer and more complicated words that are entirely unnecessary just to fill up space and time. I am writing this at an awkward angle so my left wrist is like nearly dead. Not quite dead but nearly dead. Like a zombie…or beetlejuice. Speaking of which I really need to get some striped socks….I like socks. I also like the footie/toe ones. I just do. Okay my wrist is nearing its demise. I ay need to leave off of writing and fling it around to restart its blood flow. You know, that shit’s important. OMG how do I know if yaaaaay it says time is finished. Sweet.
i wish i could draw. Grace is really good at drawing, so is Ellie. We have to draw alot in Art class and I’m not very good. I see people doodle all the time in class and I sometimes wish I could doodle like that. Grant is a good doodler too, I saw one of his doodles on facebook.
Paint me the world in black and white. The lack of color sometimes helps you to see the details so much better. It’s like getting rid of the distractions, beautiful as they may be.
The moment I draw you, you come alive. Your eyes especially, but also your mouth, you smile. Your hands, you grab me. By my hair. You pull me on the floor. You pull a gun and try to shoot me, but I’m fast and I kick you away. My mom enters the room. “What’s all that noise?” she says. You shoot her and I start crying, crying for my mom, for you, but mostly for myself. Tears fill my throat and by the time they find my lungs, I have already died out of sadness.
Drawing a blank. Drawing a conclusion from a simple look. What could he possibly mean when he cocks his eyebrow at me with that impish smile. Nothing important. I’m assuming everything when I know its relevance is virtually nothing. What does he want?
If i wasn’t a teacher, i would probably be an artist and draw different pictures)) i’m really into it. I used to draw well at school. But now i rarely have inspiration, and if i feel like drawing i realise that i run out of ideas. so what i can eventually draw is a landscape or some flowers. Perhaps i should take some classes on drawing)
Lori stepped into the drawing room, the warm sunlight bathing her pale skin. She sat down in front of her canvas with the colour palette set up and just painted to her heart’s content. No thinking was needed, her hand did all the work. After hours, she sat back and looked at her canvas that was once blank, now a picture of a girl in a white sundress and a big hat, standing on the beach with the shallow waves washing against her feet.
draw blood draw blank
see pictures traced in the snow, pristine field snow its a shame
to ruin such snow but i’m always the person
to walk it first, drawing blood
im afraid of needles, i faint, no im not
but i still faint and i can’t figure out
why why my body does it not my mind
Coming out even, pulling a revolver from a leather holster, dust blowing in the wind. An even hand – literally, even in cards, even with no trembling. A fat little hand gripping a crayon in its fist, scribbling over the paper. That’s a draw.
My sketchbook is empty, because my hand will never stay steady. And I want to draw the curves that make your face, draw you highlighted in the glow of a window, but my fingers stumble, like my voice on the words I speak to you.
My own mind betrays me as I forget the lines, a dance I’ll never remember.
Drawing is something I used to do a lot when I was younger. Sadly, I was never very good at it, I could probably copy out something decent, but never had the talent to draw something from scratch. Now, I like to doodle, it’s so much easier than drawing, and there’s no judging :p
Drawing a sword can make or break a soldier in battle. One can only hope that when he or she does so, the effect is precise and effectual. If not, the drawing of the sword can simply cause more grief and frustration.
cats , i wish I could draw. I wish I had the attention span. I wish I was a good artist again. what happened? I miss drawing. *sigh* I love expressing myself. I see it in my head, but I can’t get it on the paper. And I have drawing visions. But I can never do it, I get to the paper and nothing. I’m much better at writing
The artist took a look at the lady, and asked her to take off her clothes. With his canvas, he drew a drawing of her beautiful curves– beautiful on the outside, yet ugly inside.
Bodies Paintings people artist fruit flower stickfigures. There are a lot of different ways to draw from paintings to simple scribles at the ruler of your blank sheet.
I draw the absence of light
I draw the absence of day
I draw in my breath
at the absence of air
where
can you be?
The hand sails across the page in a beautiful swooping motion, slowly fleshing out the scene. Perfectly driven, impressively accurate, the power to draw is one that should be admired by all.
sky sun n birdssss imagination on a sheet like infinty sky :D draw wateva u want a river or a man ,universe or a sea,or just colours like a rainbow !!
i hate drawing. drawing is not my think. drawing runs in my family. weird, but i dont care at all imnot good st it or even if i am i dont care. i think brocoli is much better than drawing stuff.
When you draw something it’s calming. It sets your mind free. It helps you keep your imagination in a good state. Drawing is like breathing. It’s equally important to writing.
We draw conclusions.
Make snap decisions. But we don’t know
the color of the sky when our eyes are closed
or the gurgling of a baby still in the womb
there are thing we
cannot know
do not deserve to know
but that makes life
all the more
beautiful
I love to draw and dream of days where time stands stilll so I can fill my paper with lines that stretch and pull and draw me out, or in, whichever way I go it’s somewhere.
draw. It was a draw. Their whole life it was a draw. The daughter was a lesbian. The mother was a homophobe. The both thirsted for a loving, supportive relationship. So they fought for 60 years. Never would the acknowledge the source of their disagreement.
She sat at her desk all day and all night, with a pad of paper the colour of egg yolk and her hair around her face like a golden picture frame. She thought about all the things she had seen that week, all the things she wanted to put down into something still and silent and permanent and real – more real than the fleeting moments when suddenly the sun flashes against the window and you see everything as
She would draw about her day like people would write about their experiences. It was her way of processing her pain without having to camp out on her hurts. She did not have a lot of friends and the ones she did have did not get her need to dance with the drawing board. Since she was a little girl she found comfort into folding into a new sheet of paper and a sharpened number two pencil. They both became her companions and she would not let them go.
Johnny couldn’t hide his surprise. He hadn’t told anyone about the picture and yet, here he was watching another boy draw the exact same picture he had drawn only the day before. The same arcs and shades, the same colors and hues. He didn’t know this other boy who was replicating the exact picture he had drawn yesterday. How could the same picture be in both of their heads? How could they both draw the same place?
Drawing is something everybody can do. It’s subjective, so your “bad” may equal somebody else’s “amazing”. You can draw anything, and you can draw nothing. Simplistic or extravagant. It’s completely up to you. A piece may take you ten minutes or it may take you ten years.
Art is subjective.
It’s up to you.
I don’t like to draw… sometimes I wish I did. I wish I could draw my feelings like some people can. I guess I can write them, or I wouldn’t be here. But people say a good picture is worth a thousand words… and I’m not patient enough to write that many.
Deep breath.
Inhale. Exhale.
Shaking violently, she thrust her hand into the box, praying that the name she would draw would not be her. Couldn’t be her.
————————————————
He’s never been good with words.
Everything he says comes out wrong, doesn’t express what he’s REALLY feeling, so he learns to lock his words up and keep them inside himself.
Instead, he draws.
He doesn’t draw anything, not really. He draws everything.
He draws lines and circles and shades so precisely and his work looks like a hand from this viewpoint, but scoot four feet left, and you’re looking at a mountain.
He can’t define his drawings-can never say what they are, but something about looking at all those carefully sketched lines makes him feel free.
The game was getting very intense, only a couple of seconds till the end of the game. What was the final score? Well, it looked like it was going to be a tie. And as the opposing players try their best to win, the home team doesn’t give up, buzz buzz, it looks it’s a draw.
Draw? Seriously? That’s my damn prompt? Well crap. It did however remind me of a short poem/story I wrote in 8th grade…..wonder where the fuck I put the damn thing. Shit 60 seconds of this word is gonna kill me. Grr. Does that count as a word? No friggin idea. Well what else can I write about and I like to draw. I like to paint. I like to design clothes, stud them, bedazzle them and iron appliques to them. Cus, you know, I just do. Or whatever. Totally considering copy and pasting at random until my sixty second are up and I am also trying to think up longer and more complicated words that are entirely unnecessary just to fill up space and time. I am writing this at an awkward angle so my left wrist is like nearly dead. Not quite dead but nearly dead. Like a zombie…or beetlejuice. Speaking of which I really need to get some striped socks….I like socks. I also like the footie/toe ones. I just do. Okay my wrist is nearing its demise. I ay need to leave off of writing and fling it around to restart its blood flow. You know, that shit’s important. OMG how do I know if yaaaaay it says time is finished. Sweet.
I’m drawing a blank as to what to write about, there’s nothing interesting going on today.
I told you they would draw your number… go on, go get it!… Great! You are so going to enjoy that free iPad.
i wish i could draw. Grace is really good at drawing, so is Ellie. We have to draw alot in Art class and I’m not very good. I see people doodle all the time in class and I sometimes wish I could doodle like that. Grant is a good doodler too, I saw one of his doodles on facebook.
I hope to be able to draw like Van Gogh someday so I can show my sister that I am better.
Paint me the world in black and white. The lack of color sometimes helps you to see the details so much better. It’s like getting rid of the distractions, beautiful as they may be.
The moment I draw you, you come alive. Your eyes especially, but also your mouth, you smile. Your hands, you grab me. By my hair. You pull me on the floor. You pull a gun and try to shoot me, but I’m fast and I kick you away. My mom enters the room. “What’s all that noise?” she says. You shoot her and I start crying, crying for my mom, for you, but mostly for myself. Tears fill my throat and by the time they find my lungs, I have already died out of sadness.
Drawing a blank. Drawing a conclusion from a simple look. What could he possibly mean when he cocks his eyebrow at me with that impish smile. Nothing important. I’m assuming everything when I know its relevance is virtually nothing. What does he want?
picture, imagine, photo, drawings, design, pencil, colors,
colors lines even card game gunsmoke beauty reality photographs i can’t good/bad match chess cabinet pencil sketchpad
If i wasn’t a teacher, i would probably be an artist and draw different pictures)) i’m really into it. I used to draw well at school. But now i rarely have inspiration, and if i feel like drawing i realise that i run out of ideas. so what i can eventually draw is a landscape or some flowers. Perhaps i should take some classes on drawing)
what about drawing…i really like spending my time this way.DRAWING.it is about your imagination not about your tallent…
Lori stepped into the drawing room, the warm sunlight bathing her pale skin. She sat down in front of her canvas with the colour palette set up and just painted to her heart’s content. No thinking was needed, her hand did all the work. After hours, she sat back and looked at her canvas that was once blank, now a picture of a girl in a white sundress and a big hat, standing on the beach with the shallow waves washing against her feet.
draw blood draw blank
see pictures traced in the snow, pristine field snow its a shame
to ruin such snow but i’m always the person
to walk it first, drawing blood
im afraid of needles, i faint, no im not
but i still faint and i can’t figure out
why why my body does it not my mind
Coming out even, pulling a revolver from a leather holster, dust blowing in the wind. An even hand – literally, even in cards, even with no trembling. A fat little hand gripping a crayon in its fist, scribbling over the paper. That’s a draw.
My sketchbook is empty, because my hand will never stay steady. And I want to draw the curves that make your face, draw you highlighted in the glow of a window, but my fingers stumble, like my voice on the words I speak to you.
My own mind betrays me as I forget the lines, a dance I’ll never remember.
thank you for drawing the smile upon my face.
Drawing is something I used to do a lot when I was younger. Sadly, I was never very good at it, I could probably copy out something decent, but never had the talent to draw something from scratch. Now, I like to doodle, it’s so much easier than drawing, and there’s no judging :p
Drawing a sword can make or break a soldier in battle. One can only hope that when he or she does so, the effect is precise and effectual. If not, the drawing of the sword can simply cause more grief and frustration.
roses and gun
all on black
colorless
i think you think of me
am I the one who makes it colorful?
you never know
about gun and roses
that’s why
i think you think of me
am I the one who makes it tuned?
grief on my drawer
two roses
are you the gun?
i think you think of me
am I the other?
drawing can be therapeutic . . .you can choose whether you’re in a free-form or a color-it-in kind of mood. They’re both lovely.
cats , i wish I could draw. I wish I had the attention span. I wish I was a good artist again. what happened? I miss drawing. *sigh* I love expressing myself. I see it in my head, but I can’t get it on the paper. And I have drawing visions. But I can never do it, I get to the paper and nothing. I’m much better at writing
The artist took a look at the lady, and asked her to take off her clothes. With his canvas, he drew a drawing of her beautiful curves– beautiful on the outside, yet ugly inside.
I think I used to have it. You know, when I was a little kid ? I could draw. But that littler child flower sketch just never got watered and it died.
Bodies Paintings people artist fruit flower stickfigures. There are a lot of different ways to draw from paintings to simple scribles at the ruler of your blank sheet.