Painted pictures embody the most vivid memories and imaginations, be they simple as day or complex as night, and never fail to be beautiful. Except for abstract art. That shit is just ridiculous. Art is the most fantastic medium through which one may capture the most excellent things.
painted with blood while the sky washed all her sorrow away, her face was guilty with the crime of loving him to the extent of wanting to kill and to posses.
Wanting to see him painted the color of passion, his lips tainted
I painted my room lime gree. I think it matches my personality really well. something thats admired by others for standing out, something exciting and different. I painted my room right before the summer because to me, summer is change. A time where you can open up and be whoever you want without the stress of school. It’s a time where things are different and you figure out who and what is important to you. My lime green paint, over the old yellow I previously had, reminds me that things change and nothing lasts forever. It may be depressing, but I take it in stride to purely be who I am and to not take anything for granted.
canvas with my own blood often lately, it works with my fingernails. my cat likes it, so it doesnt often live longer than one minute after i finish but life is that way sometimes, isnt it?
Yesterday I painted and primed walls for four or five hours, and my arms were not even sore. My muscles are getting stronger from being a CNA. Painting is fun because you can cover up something and make it fresh and new.
A picture. A word. A sentence. A definition of who you are.
How do you paint a masterpiece of who you are just meeting someone?
How will they know who you are deep down in just a first impression?
We are all paintings, an orchestra, or a novel. Your striking colors, that one unusual instrument in your band, or the summary on the back of the aged book is what is visible to the world.
What does yours say?
Thade looked uneasily at Thorn, her lips dripping with red. Though it had started as a rumor, that her lips were so dark a red from drinking the blood of her victims, she had taken to the idea. Though she didn’t drink their blood (she usually went on a rant, questioning why she would ever take someone else’s diseases into her body) she just painted her lips with it. She smiled at her brother, making him feel sick.
Painting is one of the most influential and personal art forms i believe. I was never a good artist but I’ve always appreciate the talent in others. Painting brings out the inner thoughts and psychological make-up of an artist. With painting one can put his/her heart onto a canvas and leave it open for interpretation.
The house was newly painted orange, and it looked gleaming as it stood on the corner of the street. Some people were dragging in a gray fountain to put on the yard, and her parents were tending to newly planted flowers in the front yard. I waved to them and said hello, and walked on. It had been a while since my home had been touched up like this, and I wondered at the excitement of the new couple.
she took a the thickest brush in her hand. Delicately, her slender hands guided a bold stroke. It looked ominous, the navy paint dripped down the canvas. If only they could understand what her brain communicated, what it warned, what it was afraid of. art was the only escape.
I looked to the blind man in the corner of the street. He seemed so lonely, I wanted to see whether he needed help crossing. When I approached him I realized that he had a paintbrush in his hand. Needless to say, I was surprised. He suddenly looked in my direction and asked me whether I could direct him to a blank wall, he wanted to paint. I asked him how could he paint, when he couldn’t see. He looked surprised, he then said, young lady, you do not need eyes to see how colorful life truly is.
i want to be painted, i want to be studied. the curvature of my body and where the light chooses to accent. a stream of consciousness flowing through your blood and out your fingertips that connect to a brush. i want colours and i want stillness and i want mystery and i want to be a figure of immortal elusiveness.
She is free and beautiful. Unique and misunderstood. Her annoyingness is hardly bearable but she yearns for strength in popularity. Running freely she finds herself alone, but comfortable. She continues on until a lifetime of thoughtless pain brings her farther away than shed ever known. Crying and cutting, she runs into walla to find something worth her time, someone who will take her. She feels alone. The one person she ever didn’t know or go to was always there. Shed turned her back. She had yelled in his face “You left ME. You made ME this way, this is Your plan you said!” Only to be fInally comfortable when newness brought her to realization. She had chosen her path..
The painted house was all that was left after the tornados ripped through town. Last summer, John and his sons had spent all of June hauling in primer and white paint to make the house seem less old, more respectable. And now it was all that stood while around it, the fence had been ripped up, trees fallen – roots sticking straight up in the air.
Painted ponies has always seemed a misnomer to me however when I think about it the idea that the Creator God has spent his time painting each horse with a different color and brush stroke appeals to me greatly.
Welllll, I really wanna aspire to be an artist i love to draw and just be creative but i really dont know what to do with it. The other night I drew, scratch that, painted about four pictures of how I felt.
Every stroke is it’s own fingerprint, never the same, but belongs to the same painter. One stroke may not mean an entire beautiful picture. But without that stroke an important piece may be missing from the big idea.
I love painted nails. The way the light shimmers on whatever color I’m wearing. Especially the bright colors, the beautiful reds, and maroons. They definitely need to be painted with the shimmery colors, or the sparkly ones! I love painted nails.
I painted this beautiful painting back in Poland. It stayed there along with some of my other paintings and drawings, I was full of warm colors that looked like heavy grass in layers of fields.
I once thought that makeup was oft overused, to the extent that it hid the real face of women like a mask I felt they didn’t need. However, in the last 4 years I’ve had my body painted with needles and ink to leave marks I would have never been born with because I felt they belonged; additionally, the marks I have are a drop in the bucket to the ones I want before I’ll feel like my skin is complete. So who was I to judge how someone uses makeup?
I have painted quite a number of rooms. I have yet to be ‘allowed’ to paint anything boldly colored, as my spouse is more of the neutral-tone lover. I’d love to just be set free with paintbrushes and unlimited colors!
i havent painted in a while. but the other day I painted a picture for ted. and I sent it off to south america. So hopefully when ted opens up his letter he will see that I painted him something and he will laugh. Because lets face it. Im not very good at painting… at all. but he will know that I did it for him. And he’ll smile. Because it’s nice when someone does something for you.
Something that is painted is your own creation. Whether it be a house, a canvas, or a face. Painting is one of the best ways I personally know how to be creative, you can spawn something beautiful out of just an idea or take it from real life. Painted? Perfected.
The painted veil amongst those thistles contains a miniscule portion of writing and wronging and instead of naught, to be but fraught with linings and of twinings. This insight to the painted number believes in me and wasn’t under their casted spell of yesteryear to be appeared instead of clear and when it all was said and done…
i painted the sky a raging red as i saw them both in bed. tehir pale naked bodies, holding each other. i wanted to vomit. but instead i stood there. my backpack still on, leather jacket shielding my emotions. this was really happening.
It’s the painted lady that crawls out of the tent at the end of the evening dripping in love and tired from a show gone awry from the night before that stumbles up the strings of one young man’s heart leading on a journey into the macabre and strange world of the underground traveling carnival.
I painted on my balcony yesterday, looking out at the ocean. I thought of the endless abyss of the sea, the enigma it represents and tried to convey that in my painting. The dark blues and greens of the waves, the fluffy white of the bubbles on top, the orange flecks of underwater creatures darting about, unknown to mankind.
Painted. We are all painted. In a funny way, we all have some part of us thats painted–to cover up the bareness. A tattoo, nail polish, colored clothing. You left a mark on me, you painted me. Isn’t it Ironic that painted has the word pain in it?
Painted faces and long hair!
Yes, that was a reference to Lord of the Flies.
MASKS create anonymity and savagery in children.
Also, painted realities exist in Plato’s cave.
i painted a picture of a flower and then my friend, who is a communist, told me it made her sad because it was ironic. I am highly confused. Flowers are happy. My painbrushed need washed. I think I’ll paint now. bye!
Someone already took the obvious thing to write about this word so I’m going to have to make something else up. Painting has to do with art, but all I can think of is sidewalk chalk because my brain is fried from final exams soooooo I’m gonna be about done with this now. :)
The wolf watched the caves around it. The caves were closed in, a trap designed to hold him still. He did not move, only sat with the stillness of a painted being. His ear pricked suddenly, the only movement he had.
His feet moved of their own accord, leaving him as a dancing, bright shadow of twilight. His tail swished angrily, and he gave a growl. He was trapped here, trapped in place. He could not move, could not live free.
Trapped like a being painted, always still, never liberated from the confines of its prison.
I painted a picture in my head today. Yet it wasn’t what I wanted it to look like. It was bright and fluorescent; my mind is a black hole. Polar opposites in one mindset. This should not be possible.
today i grabbed a paint roller and i painted my bedroom. i painted it a cream and red colour and it looked very nice. if you would like me to paint yours then tough. when the moon hits your eyes like a pie in the sky then your a bummer. if you like lemon on your cake then you best go buy some you great big lemon head.
painted hills the sea shore shone an amazing color of monotone
distinct and rare without a care,all shapes and sizes forever there
Painted pictures embody the most vivid memories and imaginations, be they simple as day or complex as night, and never fail to be beautiful. Except for abstract art. That shit is just ridiculous. Art is the most fantastic medium through which one may capture the most excellent things.
painted with blood while the sky washed all her sorrow away, her face was guilty with the crime of loving him to the extent of wanting to kill and to posses.
Wanting to see him painted the color of passion, his lips tainted
peole strange love rainbow sun emotion nature life wild freedom
I painted my room lime gree. I think it matches my personality really well. something thats admired by others for standing out, something exciting and different. I painted my room right before the summer because to me, summer is change. A time where you can open up and be whoever you want without the stress of school. It’s a time where things are different and you figure out who and what is important to you. My lime green paint, over the old yellow I previously had, reminds me that things change and nothing lasts forever. It may be depressing, but I take it in stride to purely be who I am and to not take anything for granted.
canvas with my own blood often lately, it works with my fingernails. my cat likes it, so it doesnt often live longer than one minute after i finish but life is that way sometimes, isnt it?
Yesterday I painted and primed walls for four or five hours, and my arms were not even sore. My muscles are getting stronger from being a CNA. Painting is fun because you can cover up something and make it fresh and new.
A picture. A word. A sentence. A definition of who you are.
How do you paint a masterpiece of who you are just meeting someone?
How will they know who you are deep down in just a first impression?
We are all paintings, an orchestra, or a novel. Your striking colors, that one unusual instrument in your band, or the summary on the back of the aged book is what is visible to the world.
What does yours say?
Thade looked uneasily at Thorn, her lips dripping with red. Though it had started as a rumor, that her lips were so dark a red from drinking the blood of her victims, she had taken to the idea. Though she didn’t drink their blood (she usually went on a rant, questioning why she would ever take someone else’s diseases into her body) she just painted her lips with it. She smiled at her brother, making him feel sick.
Painting is one of the most influential and personal art forms i believe. I was never a good artist but I’ve always appreciate the talent in others. Painting brings out the inner thoughts and psychological make-up of an artist. With painting one can put his/her heart onto a canvas and leave it open for interpretation.
The house was newly painted orange, and it looked gleaming as it stood on the corner of the street. Some people were dragging in a gray fountain to put on the yard, and her parents were tending to newly planted flowers in the front yard. I waved to them and said hello, and walked on. It had been a while since my home had been touched up like this, and I wondered at the excitement of the new couple.
she took a the thickest brush in her hand. Delicately, her slender hands guided a bold stroke. It looked ominous, the navy paint dripped down the canvas. If only they could understand what her brain communicated, what it warned, what it was afraid of. art was the only escape.
I looked to the blind man in the corner of the street. He seemed so lonely, I wanted to see whether he needed help crossing. When I approached him I realized that he had a paintbrush in his hand. Needless to say, I was surprised. He suddenly looked in my direction and asked me whether I could direct him to a blank wall, he wanted to paint. I asked him how could he paint, when he couldn’t see. He looked surprised, he then said, young lady, you do not need eyes to see how colorful life truly is.
the rock outside my high school was painted for different reasons: graduations, the death of a classmate, a school rivalry
i want to be painted, i want to be studied. the curvature of my body and where the light chooses to accent. a stream of consciousness flowing through your blood and out your fingertips that connect to a brush. i want colours and i want stillness and i want mystery and i want to be a figure of immortal elusiveness.
She is free and beautiful. Unique and misunderstood. Her annoyingness is hardly bearable but she yearns for strength in popularity. Running freely she finds herself alone, but comfortable. She continues on until a lifetime of thoughtless pain brings her farther away than shed ever known. Crying and cutting, she runs into walla to find something worth her time, someone who will take her. She feels alone. The one person she ever didn’t know or go to was always there. Shed turned her back. She had yelled in his face “You left ME. You made ME this way, this is Your plan you said!” Only to be fInally comfortable when newness brought her to realization. She had chosen her path..
The painted house was all that was left after the tornados ripped through town. Last summer, John and his sons had spent all of June hauling in primer and white paint to make the house seem less old, more respectable. And now it was all that stood while around it, the fence had been ripped up, trees fallen – roots sticking straight up in the air.
Painted ponies has always seemed a misnomer to me however when I think about it the idea that the Creator God has spent his time painting each horse with a different color and brush stroke appeals to me greatly.
I feel complete when I paint… I feel infinte almost.
Kind of like that feeling I get when I talk to you.
Yes, you.
Infinte with you.
Welllll, I really wanna aspire to be an artist i love to draw and just be creative but i really dont know what to do with it. The other night I drew, scratch that, painted about four pictures of how I felt.
Every stroke is it’s own fingerprint, never the same, but belongs to the same painter. One stroke may not mean an entire beautiful picture. But without that stroke an important piece may be missing from the big idea.
I love painted nails. The way the light shimmers on whatever color I’m wearing. Especially the bright colors, the beautiful reds, and maroons. They definitely need to be painted with the shimmery colors, or the sparkly ones! I love painted nails.
she painter her face
he painted the wall
he painted himself into a corner
they painted a picture
I painted this beautiful painting back in Poland. It stayed there along with some of my other paintings and drawings, I was full of warm colors that looked like heavy grass in layers of fields.
I once thought that makeup was oft overused, to the extent that it hid the real face of women like a mask I felt they didn’t need. However, in the last 4 years I’ve had my body painted with needles and ink to leave marks I would have never been born with because I felt they belonged; additionally, the marks I have are a drop in the bucket to the ones I want before I’ll feel like my skin is complete. So who was I to judge how someone uses makeup?
When i think painted, I think of beautiful and rich color…rich reds especially. Painted lips, painted eyes…beautiful things.
I have painted quite a number of rooms. I have yet to be ‘allowed’ to paint anything boldly colored, as my spouse is more of the neutral-tone lover. I’d love to just be set free with paintbrushes and unlimited colors!
i havent painted in a while. but the other day I painted a picture for ted. and I sent it off to south america. So hopefully when ted opens up his letter he will see that I painted him something and he will laugh. Because lets face it. Im not very good at painting… at all. but he will know that I did it for him. And he’ll smile. Because it’s nice when someone does something for you.
Something that is painted is your own creation. Whether it be a house, a canvas, or a face. Painting is one of the best ways I personally know how to be creative, you can spawn something beautiful out of just an idea or take it from real life. Painted? Perfected.
The painted veil amongst those thistles contains a miniscule portion of writing and wronging and instead of naught, to be but fraught with linings and of twinings. This insight to the painted number believes in me and wasn’t under their casted spell of yesteryear to be appeared instead of clear and when it all was said and done…
i painted the sky a raging red as i saw them both in bed. tehir pale naked bodies, holding each other. i wanted to vomit. but instead i stood there. my backpack still on, leather jacket shielding my emotions. this was really happening.
It’s the painted lady that crawls out of the tent at the end of the evening dripping in love and tired from a show gone awry from the night before that stumbles up the strings of one young man’s heart leading on a journey into the macabre and strange world of the underground traveling carnival.
I painted on my balcony yesterday, looking out at the ocean. I thought of the endless abyss of the sea, the enigma it represents and tried to convey that in my painting. The dark blues and greens of the waves, the fluffy white of the bubbles on top, the orange flecks of underwater creatures darting about, unknown to mankind.
Painted. We are all painted. In a funny way, we all have some part of us thats painted–to cover up the bareness. A tattoo, nail polish, colored clothing. You left a mark on me, you painted me. Isn’t it Ironic that painted has the word pain in it?
Painted faces and long hair!
Yes, that was a reference to Lord of the Flies.
MASKS create anonymity and savagery in children.
Also, painted realities exist in Plato’s cave.
i painted a picture of a flower and then my friend, who is a communist, told me it made her sad because it was ironic. I am highly confused. Flowers are happy. My painbrushed need washed. I think I’ll paint now. bye!
Someone already took the obvious thing to write about this word so I’m going to have to make something else up. Painting has to do with art, but all I can think of is sidewalk chalk because my brain is fried from final exams soooooo I’m gonna be about done with this now. :)
The wolf watched the caves around it. The caves were closed in, a trap designed to hold him still. He did not move, only sat with the stillness of a painted being. His ear pricked suddenly, the only movement he had.
His feet moved of their own accord, leaving him as a dancing, bright shadow of twilight. His tail swished angrily, and he gave a growl. He was trapped here, trapped in place. He could not move, could not live free.
Trapped like a being painted, always still, never liberated from the confines of its prison.
I painted a picture in my head today. Yet it wasn’t what I wanted it to look like. It was bright and fluorescent; my mind is a black hole. Polar opposites in one mindset. This should not be possible.
today i grabbed a paint roller and i painted my bedroom. i painted it a cream and red colour and it looked very nice. if you would like me to paint yours then tough. when the moon hits your eyes like a pie in the sky then your a bummer. if you like lemon on your cake then you best go buy some you great big lemon head.