I went into a museum on thursday. I expected to see the usual paintings, sculptuers anything! but instead i saw a sketch. It wasnt painted. It wasnt anything just a sketch i thought what is the thought behind this? was there even any thought at all. just a sketch. plain and simple.
He loved splatter paintings. He loved doing them. He always wanted to do something where he and his current boyfriend, Max, would be wearing white everything, in a white room, just using the walls as their canvases. He never wanted to do that with anyone else, they were meant for each other.
Being an artists, I can write paragraphs worth of information about “painted”. Yet when I have to put it down to words here, Im unable to collect my thoughts. It’s a weird feeling, I dont know what its called. But im gonna call it
i painted a picture on the inside of my mind. i painted it with music and the rhythms that flow through my brain. It keeps me from being lonely when everything else fails me. It whispers comforts to me when I need them most. It is my best of friends, my greatestest companion. I painted a picture with music to stay when no one else would.
a green dot. never ending love. green love, trees, birds, what we all enjoy all encased in one little globe covered in black soot from the industrial machinery all around us. we have no control of what is painted, only how we paint it. we can either paint and color a beautiful picture or we can taint the picture with all the detrimental and harmful effects of life. painting is how we view the world..
Everything is painted to be something else, yet the painting drips, causing the masterpiece to change quickly. It may be for the better or worse, but the outcome will never be known till the end.
I painted the sky with vivid reds. It reminded me of a time when red was all I saw. Red was the color of your worn stripped shirt. Red was the color of you twenty dollar bargain Converse we found last Christmas in that small thrift shop near Robinson Ave.
As I painted the river flowing in front of me, I struggled to capture the way the ripples and waves moved. It flowed on and on, ever changing, ever immortal.
a base coat of ivory —shade 105. (7% titanium dioxide and octinoxate. 93%…?)
two symmetrical circular smudges the shade of pink lemonade (equidistant on either side of her nose) are intended to give definition to hollows that don’t actually exist.
she considers something shimmery for her lids —to substitute for the sparkle that has long since been missing from the now, otherwise, lackluster grey-blue eyes–
glitter, perhaps?
a dark brown shadow is added to the crease to create the illusion of…depth(?)
concentration increases as she pulls out some onyx liquid and a charcoal pencil.
cat or doe eyes, today?
she wills her quivering hand to stop shaking as she –ever so carefully– attempts to draw thin lines (or not so thin –depending on how daring she feels in that particular moment) across the rim or her eyelids just above the lashes.
her hand slips. black ink bleeds into her eye.
she blinks sporadically.
ebony tears leak down her cheek.
she grabs a cotton-ball and dabs her face dry—fiercely she restores the areas of her disrupted creation.
she then takes out a small brush (reminiscent of a miniature porcupine) and proceeds to comb her lashes with careful strokes. upward and out. upward and out. upward and out.
*ah, a perfect curl.*
she does the other.
then, of course, she takes out her eyebrow pencil and begins to fill in the gaps where the hair fails to lie just so. she heightens the arch. suddenly she looks mysterious.
but she knows there is no mystery.
and, finally, her lips.
what do they say today? (she looks at her vast gloss collection.)
I’m earthy? (brown.)
I’m sensual? (red.)
I’m innocent? (pink.)
I’m hurting and scared and confused and exhausted and (more often than not) hungry?(!)
……….
….nothing.
they say nothing.
red. she decides.
red, will do just fine.
she smears it across the perfect cupid’s bow of her lips.
she smiles.
a base coat of ivory —shade 105. (7% titanium dioxide and octinoxate. 93%…?)
two symmetrical circular smudges the shade of pink lemonade (equidistant on either side of her nose) are intended to give definition to hollows that don’t actually exist.
she considers something shimmery for her lids —to substitute for the sparkle that has long since been missing from the now, otherwise, lackluster grey-blue eyes–
glitter, perhaps?
a dark brown shadow is added to the crease to create the illusion of…depth(?)
concentration increases as she pulls out some onyx liquid and a charcoal pencil.
cat or doe eyes, today?
she wills her quivering hand to stop shaking as she –ever so carefully– attempts to draw thin lines (or not so thin –depending on how daring she feels in that particular moment) across the rim or her eyelids just above the lashes.
her hand slips. black ink bleeds into her eye.
she blinks sporadically.
ebony tears leak down her cheek.
she grabs a cotton-ball and dabs her face dry—fiercely she restores the areas of her disrupted creation.
she then takes out a small brush (reminiscent of a miniature porcupine) and proceeds to comb her lashes with careful strokes. upward and out. upward and out. upward and out.
*ah, a perfect curl.*
she does the other.
then, of course, she takes out her eyebrow pencil and begins to fill in the gaps where the hair fails to lie just so. she heightens the arch. suddenly she looks mysterious.
but she knows there is no mystery.
and, finally, her lips.
what do they say today? (she looks at her vast gloss collection.)
I’m earthy? (brown.)
I’m sensual? (red.)
I’m innocent? (pink.)
I’m hurting and scared and confused and exhausted and (more often than not) hungry?(!)
….nothing.
they say nothing.
red. she decides.
red, will do just fine.
she smears it across the perfect cupid’s bow of her lips.
she smiles.
today I painted a picture of what i wish my future husband would be like. But then i realized i dont need a man. I’m the most independent girl i’ve ever met and i don’t know that that will ever change. i took the painted picture and threw it away. boys are so stupid. haha
I painted your pitcure in music. My guitar was my paintbrush. Your ears are the canvas. Perhaps the masterpiece is only a matter of our own perception.
the dog was painted blue like the sky on a summers day right after it has rained. But I don’t like the dog painted blue because it reminds me of a fake-ness. like you see those french poodles died pink carried by their supercilious owners. I didn’t want my dog blue.
the picture showed colours, red, blue green and black, the diseased and angry heart pulsed for life, shook, and then was still for death. A painting for my father.
Painted. Created. Stroke by stroke, developed from whirlwinds on a pallet in the hands of an artist. Not a professional necessarily but an artist. Someone with a vision. They may not know about the vision, but it exists and it fuels the image that is now being painted.
a word at one time paints a different picture each time …red would indicate movement in big splashes it would represent pain in little dots it would indicate to stop and look closer…blue in big strokes would mean movement and
I’ve painted all my life, with grace and virtue i paint what i want. This is all i want and all i need painting is my true beet. The beet of imagination the brainstorm in my head when i paint is like something out of this world.
the man looked out his window at the glittering ocean waves below
he picked up the brush and recreated the scene before slowly walking away and leaving the easel for all to see
– the same landscape unframed,
perfectly painted.
she painted the canvas with her tears and her sadness and tied them all up in a boe. she waited all day through the sun and the rain with no place left to go. she journyed and ran, she talked and she sang, she fought through the storms, head held high. and when she was done with that fourty k run that is life she sat down and she cried.
i painted a story with this word. it’s made of film and wax. the crayon colors are translucent against the window and i think that maybe its possible to understand something of nature.
I painted my room for what felt like hours, and by the end of the day i found out that what i was really trying to do was to get my mind of things, of you…
Did I make it? Not really, everything I thought was US.
Her painted nails glistened in the warm sunlight, the soft pink shining back at her. She loved the way they made her feel. She hoped he would notice. She wanted him to notice her.
I painted my heart red today. As long as I live, it will be that way. I had to find some way to mend it. This seemed the easiest. Like the soldiers in Alice in Wonderland, I have to paint it to keep myself happy. Like a smooth exterior, my interior is hidden from view. Rare will I open up and let others see the truth, but as I am bright on the outside, it covers the inside. The painted heart hides the pain from the past. It hides the troubles it feels. The paint seals the heart away.
Her face was painted like a two dollar whore but her dress said money. Some women, particularly those living in Alabama, don’t really understand synergy.
The man’s face was painted in a manner reminiscent of a clown, but not one of children’s parties. One of nightmares. He stared through my window in the middle of the night and I shuddered to think his would be the last face I see.
This can be thought of in different ways. Usually artistically. Painting on canvas or something else. But the Earth is painted with colors that we often overlook. When I stand and look at the environment around me I try to notice these beautiful things that many people, as well as myself take for granted.
i painted a wall today. i told him how much i loved him. i wondered if he would coincidentally see the painting and wonder who drew it. wonder the story behind the words. wonder who it was meant for. what the person was like.
i painted a picture today. There was nothing special about it, but it was mine. I drew the things that i see in my mind. Things that no one else in the whole world will ever be able to reproduce. That is art.
today i painted a picture. It wasn’t a complicated one, it didn’t represent anything in particular. Well I suppose at the time I thought it didn’t. Looking back I suppose that was the first time I’d thought about it in a long time, what had happened. In an attempt to express my emotions in a way that was simpler than words, i picked up the brush.
the words danced around my mind and the flowed out thorugh my fingers
brushes
my fingertips slid across the canvass
colouring the page
words trickled and paint ran from my heart and into the world.
The man’s face was painted in a manner reminiscent of a clown, but not one of children’s parties. One of nightmares. He stared through my window in the middle of the night and I shuddered to think his would be the last face I see.
On her face it was painted, but never really true. Her color was always yellow, but today she painted blue, for a man she did not loved but would like him too. So she painted over her yellow to match his blue.
i was walking in the sunlight
with your eyes painted on me
like searchlights over rocky cliffs
and tall grass, oceans
with no bottoms and kisses
that go on days.
So I painted the house. I didn’t want to but the bitch just wouldn’t stop nagging me about it. “Paint it a nice olive shade sometime won’t you dear?” she would always tell me as I pulled into our driveway in the red pick-up, coming back from a long day of work when all I wanted to do was sit down on the couch, take a nap, have a snack, and maybe have some light intercourse later.
I went into a museum on thursday. I expected to see the usual paintings, sculptuers anything! but instead i saw a sketch. It wasnt painted. It wasnt anything just a sketch i thought what is the thought behind this? was there even any thought at all. just a sketch. plain and simple.
He loved splatter paintings. He loved doing them. He always wanted to do something where he and his current boyfriend, Max, would be wearing white everything, in a white room, just using the walls as their canvases. He never wanted to do that with anyone else, they were meant for each other.
Being an artists, I can write paragraphs worth of information about “painted”. Yet when I have to put it down to words here, Im unable to collect my thoughts. It’s a weird feeling, I dont know what its called. But im gonna call it
i painted a picture on the inside of my mind. i painted it with music and the rhythms that flow through my brain. It keeps me from being lonely when everything else fails me. It whispers comforts to me when I need them most. It is my best of friends, my greatestest companion. I painted a picture with music to stay when no one else would.
a green dot. never ending love. green love, trees, birds, what we all enjoy all encased in one little globe covered in black soot from the industrial machinery all around us. we have no control of what is painted, only how we paint it. we can either paint and color a beautiful picture or we can taint the picture with all the detrimental and harmful effects of life. painting is how we view the world..
I always wanted to paint like Monet when I was a kid and even now. I think it must cost a lot of money to do something so simple as a water landscape.
Everything is painted to be something else, yet the painting drips, causing the masterpiece to change quickly. It may be for the better or worse, but the outcome will never be known till the end.
I painted the sky with vivid reds. It reminded me of a time when red was all I saw. Red was the color of your worn stripped shirt. Red was the color of you twenty dollar bargain Converse we found last Christmas in that small thrift shop near Robinson Ave.
room colors life fullfilment fun pictures scenery ocean faces love feelings emotions bright dark amazing creative powerful moving
As I painted the river flowing in front of me, I struggled to capture the way the ripples and waves moved. It flowed on and on, ever changing, ever immortal.
– a flesh canvas.
a base coat of ivory —shade 105. (7% titanium dioxide and octinoxate. 93%…?)
two symmetrical circular smudges the shade of pink lemonade (equidistant on either side of her nose) are intended to give definition to hollows that don’t actually exist.
she considers something shimmery for her lids —to substitute for the sparkle that has long since been missing from the now, otherwise, lackluster grey-blue eyes–
glitter, perhaps?
a dark brown shadow is added to the crease to create the illusion of…depth(?)
concentration increases as she pulls out some onyx liquid and a charcoal pencil.
cat or doe eyes, today?
she wills her quivering hand to stop shaking as she –ever so carefully– attempts to draw thin lines (or not so thin –depending on how daring she feels in that particular moment) across the rim or her eyelids just above the lashes.
her hand slips. black ink bleeds into her eye.
she blinks sporadically.
ebony tears leak down her cheek.
she grabs a cotton-ball and dabs her face dry—fiercely she restores the areas of her disrupted creation.
she then takes out a small brush (reminiscent of a miniature porcupine) and proceeds to comb her lashes with careful strokes. upward and out. upward and out. upward and out.
*ah, a perfect curl.*
she does the other.
then, of course, she takes out her eyebrow pencil and begins to fill in the gaps where the hair fails to lie just so. she heightens the arch. suddenly she looks mysterious.
but she knows there is no mystery.
and, finally, her lips.
what do they say today? (she looks at her vast gloss collection.)
I’m earthy? (brown.)
I’m sensual? (red.)
I’m innocent? (pink.)
I’m hurting and scared and confused and exhausted and (more often than not) hungry?(!)
……….
….nothing.
they say nothing.
red. she decides.
red, will do just fine.
she smears it across the perfect cupid’s bow of her lips.
she smiles.
(she is)
a perfect portrait.
a beautiful lie.
– a flesh canvas.
a base coat of ivory —shade 105. (7% titanium dioxide and octinoxate. 93%…?)
two symmetrical circular smudges the shade of pink lemonade (equidistant on either side of her nose) are intended to give definition to hollows that don’t actually exist.
she considers something shimmery for her lids —to substitute for the sparkle that has long since been missing from the now, otherwise, lackluster grey-blue eyes–
glitter, perhaps?
a dark brown shadow is added to the crease to create the illusion of…depth(?)
concentration increases as she pulls out some onyx liquid and a charcoal pencil.
cat or doe eyes, today?
she wills her quivering hand to stop shaking as she –ever so carefully– attempts to draw thin lines (or not so thin –depending on how daring she feels in that particular moment) across the rim or her eyelids just above the lashes.
her hand slips. black ink bleeds into her eye.
she blinks sporadically.
ebony tears leak down her cheek.
she grabs a cotton-ball and dabs her face dry—fiercely she restores the areas of her disrupted creation.
she then takes out a small brush (reminiscent of a miniature porcupine) and proceeds to comb her lashes with careful strokes. upward and out. upward and out. upward and out.
*ah, a perfect curl.*
she does the other.
then, of course, she takes out her eyebrow pencil and begins to fill in the gaps where the hair fails to lie just so. she heightens the arch. suddenly she looks mysterious.
but she knows there is no mystery.
and, finally, her lips.
what do they say today? (she looks at her vast gloss collection.)
I’m earthy? (brown.)
I’m sensual? (red.)
I’m innocent? (pink.)
I’m hurting and scared and confused and exhausted and (more often than not) hungry?(!)
….nothing.
they say nothing.
red. she decides.
red, will do just fine.
she smears it across the perfect cupid’s bow of her lips.
she smiles.
(she is)
a perfect portrait.
a beautiful lie.
today I painted a picture of what i wish my future husband would be like. But then i realized i dont need a man. I’m the most independent girl i’ve ever met and i don’t know that that will ever change. i took the painted picture and threw it away. boys are so stupid. haha
I painted your pitcure in music. My guitar was my paintbrush. Your ears are the canvas. Perhaps the masterpiece is only a matter of our own perception.
the dog was painted blue like the sky on a summers day right after it has rained. But I don’t like the dog painted blue because it reminds me of a fake-ness. like you see those french poodles died pink carried by their supercilious owners. I didn’t want my dog blue.
the picture showed colours, red, blue green and black, the diseased and angry heart pulsed for life, shook, and then was still for death. A painting for my father.
Painted. Created. Stroke by stroke, developed from whirlwinds on a pallet in the hands of an artist. Not a professional necessarily but an artist. Someone with a vision. They may not know about the vision, but it exists and it fuels the image that is now being painted.
a word at one time paints a different picture each time …red would indicate movement in big splashes it would represent pain in little dots it would indicate to stop and look closer…blue in big strokes would mean movement and
I’ve painted all my life, with grace and virtue i paint what i want. This is all i want and all i need painting is my true beet. The beet of imagination the brainstorm in my head when i paint is like something out of this world.
the man looked out his window at the glittering ocean waves below
he picked up the brush and recreated the scene before slowly walking away and leaving the easel for all to see
– the same landscape unframed,
perfectly painted.
These thoughts are painted on the internet wall, some with accuracy and color others with dull and incomplete expression. Like this one
she painted the canvas with her tears and her sadness and tied them all up in a boe. she waited all day through the sun and the rain with no place left to go. she journyed and ran, she talked and she sang, she fought through the storms, head held high. and when she was done with that fourty k run that is life she sat down and she cried.
i painted a story with this word. it’s made of film and wax. the crayon colors are translucent against the window and i think that maybe its possible to understand something of nature.
I painted my room for what felt like hours, and by the end of the day i found out that what i was really trying to do was to get my mind of things, of you…
Did I make it? Not really, everything I thought was US.
Her painted nails glistened in the warm sunlight, the soft pink shining back at her. She loved the way they made her feel. She hoped he would notice. She wanted him to notice her.
I painted my heart red today. As long as I live, it will be that way. I had to find some way to mend it. This seemed the easiest. Like the soldiers in Alice in Wonderland, I have to paint it to keep myself happy. Like a smooth exterior, my interior is hidden from view. Rare will I open up and let others see the truth, but as I am bright on the outside, it covers the inside. The painted heart hides the pain from the past. It hides the troubles it feels. The paint seals the heart away.
Her face was painted like a two dollar whore but her dress said money. Some women, particularly those living in Alabama, don’t really understand synergy.
The man’s face was painted in a manner reminiscent of a clown, but not one of children’s parties. One of nightmares. He stared through my window in the middle of the night and I shuddered to think his would be the last face I see.
This can be thought of in different ways. Usually artistically. Painting on canvas or something else. But the Earth is painted with colors that we often overlook. When I stand and look at the environment around me I try to notice these beautiful things that many people, as well as myself take for granted.
i painted a wall today. i told him how much i loved him. i wondered if he would coincidentally see the painting and wonder who drew it. wonder the story behind the words. wonder who it was meant for. what the person was like.
i painted a picture today. There was nothing special about it, but it was mine. I drew the things that i see in my mind. Things that no one else in the whole world will ever be able to reproduce. That is art.
today i painted a picture. It wasn’t a complicated one, it didn’t represent anything in particular. Well I suppose at the time I thought it didn’t. Looking back I suppose that was the first time I’d thought about it in a long time, what had happened. In an attempt to express my emotions in a way that was simpler than words, i picked up the brush.
the words danced around my mind and the flowed out thorugh my fingers
brushes
my fingertips slid across the canvass
colouring the page
words trickled and paint ran from my heart and into the world.
The man’s face was painted in a manner reminiscent of a clown, but not one of children’s parties. One of nightmares. He stared through my window in the middle of the night and I shuddered to think his would be the last face I see.
On her face it was painted, but never really true. Her color was always yellow, but today she painted blue, for a man she did not loved but would like him too. So she painted over her yellow to match his blue.
i was walking in the sunlight
with your eyes painted on me
like searchlights over rocky cliffs
and tall grass, oceans
with no bottoms and kisses
that go on days.
I should have painted today, rather than sit at the computer on oneword.com
So I painted the house. I didn’t want to but the bitch just wouldn’t stop nagging me about it. “Paint it a nice olive shade sometime won’t you dear?” she would always tell me as I pulled into our driveway in the red pick-up, coming back from a long day of work when all I wanted to do was sit down on the couch, take a nap, have a snack, and maybe have some light intercourse later.
in the midst of the world, we are all simply painted, we fade, we drip, we never stay. lasting impressions only stay but we’re only painted.
grey like the color of charchol, the concrete and the sidewalk. Dictating what is bright by comparasion.giving a starting point for beauty