I stood there while the bristles tickled my body. The deep purple, hot pink, sea-foam green and ocean blue covering every inch, with a touch of glitter. I felt beautiful. Oddly, it was only when I was hidden from the world. Color and cloth masked my identity. The pain inside was invisible and I envied the confidence this girl possessed. I no longer saw the truth in the mirror. I wish the mirror would lie more often.
i painted a picture and it was beautiful. i wanted to see it in real life. i wondered if it existed. i wondered if it would ever exist. i still want to see it in real life. i still have the picture. i locked it away for a while, but reopened its past. i love that picture.
Painted memories splash my mind, the wet paint seeps through.
Splatters and speckles cover the walls, the veins of life.
Memories of you, me. I don’t know if I should start a new canvas.
Maybe I should paint over them, forget about it, destroyed work.
Not sure if I want to forget or to remember.
Not sure if I want to paint this over.
Beautiful landscaped memories.
her face was painted like a porcellian doll. So soft yet so bright and cold. Her head was so far away and untouchable. She was an item, to be on the shelf forever. If only she saw what everyone else saw, that she was fragile
The side of the ship was painted with an olive green to help hide it from prying eyes. The soldier had chosen to not go below tonight. He had an ominous feeling about tonight. There were uboats about and he didn;t want to be caught out if they were attacked. His eyes scanned the water tirelessly, fear helping to keep his focus on the task.
There she stood, looking at the painted masterpiece called LuLa. It was all he could do to remove the painting from the hallway, framed in gold leaf the canvas told of unwavering youth.
As she painted her lips ruby red she dreamed of the day her prince charming will come to rescue her from this prison-like home. She slipped into her favorite beige dress and trialed her fingers where his used to linger. His scent still fresh in her mind brought tears to her violet eyes colliding with her pupils like crashing waves upon the shore.
Today at evening I sat on my lawn and watched the sky. As minutes passed, I watched as clouds rolled away and were replaced by hues of orange and pink; purple brushstrokes squeezed generously in between. Then all within seconds all was erased and covered in a blanket of stars…
I’m not sure what happens to us. Children paint with everything. If it is wet and can be smeared, it will be. Everywhere. All over the new carpet, wall paper, Boots, Spot… But somehow I know hardly any adults who paint.
Painted…. hm… never really painted anything, mostly sketched. But I remember when I was doing acting in highschool and college, I had to use Make-up for the first time, kinda weird… and annoying when I had to use alcohol to get it off, and uncomfortable when I had to get around my eyes.
It hides behind a painted mask
Uncertain of itself
Never daring to reveal
The beautiful thing that it is–
or is it ugly?
No one knows.
All it can be recognized as is
Exactly what it shows:
Painted.
I splattered red and blue against the canvas. Inky dots flecked my cheeks and hands and spattered up my arms. I threw yellow and pink, leaving un-even splotches of color covering the pasty vanilla of my palate.
once upon a time i painted a picture with paint the paint was yellow the picture was green. the green picture types well because it is blue the blue typist paints well because he is a bear the bear is a paint brush made from pubes of jesus
i used to paint a lot but i haven’t painted anything in a long time. i never found my own painting style. finally i gave up and started experimenting with other art forms. i realized it’s okay if i never paint again.
Painted. I painted a painting and it showed who this person was. It was beautifully painted as the sky, the cigarette butts, the ash, the creamy white I smeared bare handed, the smell that tinged my clothes, the colors that splashed across like dandelions. I painted.
I wish that I had more than just painted that day in the basement I wish that I had loved and thought and wrote done something to leave my mark. I wish that I had done more than left my initials….what if I’m forgotten forever. Left as only a senior picture in a frame that may not always be there what if I’m forgotten forever?
The walls were red. Like the sky on a summers now. I wanted a change, I wanted to feel the happiness that sunshine brings. I wanted yellow. I couldn’t help but through buckets of paint onto the wall. It was a mess. Just like me. Just like my life.
once upon a time there was a picture. I used to stare at it for hours at a time. It was beautiful. All it had, was a tree. But it was the most beautiful tree i had ever seen. i imagined myself sitting on it, daydreaming, reading, singing. i imagined building a tree house. going there when i was happy, or sad. sometimes alone, sometimes in company of someone very special. it has so many memories. no one understood how special it was. but a painting is not something to take for granted.
You painted me with pinks and reds. I watched in amazement. You are truly gifted. You are the best painter. Your fingers are your brushes. Your paints are embedded in my soft skin.
The walls in here were lifeless, but I changed that. What better way to breathe life into them than with the very thing that kept my own heart beating? I would re-open the wounds every day, even when the nurses strapped my arms to my back. I would paint a memory of the outside in rust-red, even after the man came in to wash the walls clean. They couldn’t stop me from making my cell beautiful, hurting myself to do it, and that terrified them.
I’ve always wished I could paint. anything, anywhere, at any time. i want it to look like a painting, but i want it to look real. i want people to look at it and feel a variety of different emotions because it means something different to every person. i want it to mean something to everyone.
He licked his painted lips that had been carefully glossed up. This little thing always got to him. Having lips like a girl when he had to dress like this to avoid the bookies after him. It always bothered him, just as bad as the skirt around his thighs. Fi’s plan had been fool proof because Tegan Ehno Nastasi being the type of guy that took pride in his masculinity, no one ever suspected that the lithe man could transform into a crossdresser with such ease. Just as much as everyone else, he had never expected himself to look pretty and it always seemed like the last touch of gloss was the final nail in his coffin. He looked like a freakin chick.
I’ve painted a lot of things. As a kid, I loved all things art. I think I’ve painting everything from my brother’s toys to my own face (Mom was quite mad about that one). But now, I no longer have that innocent imaginative streak. I miss it.
i painted a picture in high school that was an honest piece of trash. it was then that i realized that I didn’t have any sort of talent for painting. i took an art class in college anyways and found out that i just didn’t have talent for a paint brush. i painted a goddam da vinci with my fingers.
I painted the giant three-story house with its three levels of deck. I started on one end and just kept painting my way around without ever stopping. As soon as I got all the way around it was time to start over again.
I wish i could paint better than i do. then i could be like my friend morgan who always paints for her friends. I would paint pretty pictures with birds, flowers, suns ext. Gifts for birthday, anniversaries, and other things would be so much easier. So once upon a time there was this young women named morgan. She enjoyed painting… a lot.
The wall was a mask of painted colors. Crayons all crushed into the porous surface by the toddlers. Loopy stick figures and 4-stick-toes dogs looked at me with a loony smile.
I painted my nails recently with sparkly nail polish. Accessorising you could say. Is nail polish an extension of a girl (or a boy if that floats your boat) ‘s personality. Joseph Cambell
i painted a beautiful picture and it was ugly so i ate it… then i had loose stools for the rest of my life. and then i died… i miss that painted. it was very beautiful and it made sense just like your mom.
I painted the body yesterday. I used red paint. It needed to be done only because it needed to be. Also I painted the town. Like in that Green Day song entitled “Ha Ha You’re Dead”.
I paint hope. I paint pleasure. I paint tears. I paint to great measures. I paint for feeling. I paint for dispair. And I’ll keep painting till I lose all my hair.
I painted the house yesterday. It was hard at first, finding the gloves, some cleaner, stir sticks and a paintbrush. It felt good though, changing the house from plain brown to deep indigo blue. I had missed the sky after so long inside.
I painted my heart into your hand. You washed it away . I painted my face to your liking. You turned away. I paint and paint but you never notice my creations. One day you will ,I think to myself. One day you will.
I stood there while the bristles tickled my body. The deep purple, hot pink, sea-foam green and ocean blue covering every inch, with a touch of glitter. I felt beautiful. Oddly, it was only when I was hidden from the world. Color and cloth masked my identity. The pain inside was invisible and I envied the confidence this girl possessed. I no longer saw the truth in the mirror. I wish the mirror would lie more often.
i painted a picture and it was beautiful. i wanted to see it in real life. i wondered if it existed. i wondered if it would ever exist. i still want to see it in real life. i still have the picture. i locked it away for a while, but reopened its past. i love that picture.
Painted memories splash my mind, the wet paint seeps through.
Splatters and speckles cover the walls, the veins of life.
Memories of you, me. I don’t know if I should start a new canvas.
Maybe I should paint over them, forget about it, destroyed work.
Not sure if I want to forget or to remember.
Not sure if I want to paint this over.
Beautiful landscaped memories.
Sometimes they should just be forgotten.
her face was painted like a porcellian doll. So soft yet so bright and cold. Her head was so far away and untouchable. She was an item, to be on the shelf forever. If only she saw what everyone else saw, that she was fragile
The side of the ship was painted with an olive green to help hide it from prying eyes. The soldier had chosen to not go below tonight. He had an ominous feeling about tonight. There were uboats about and he didn;t want to be caught out if they were attacked. His eyes scanned the water tirelessly, fear helping to keep his focus on the task.
There she stood, looking at the painted masterpiece called LuLa. It was all he could do to remove the painting from the hallway, framed in gold leaf the canvas told of unwavering youth.
As she painted her lips ruby red she dreamed of the day her prince charming will come to rescue her from this prison-like home. She slipped into her favorite beige dress and trialed her fingers where his used to linger. His scent still fresh in her mind brought tears to her violet eyes colliding with her pupils like crashing waves upon the shore.
Today at evening I sat on my lawn and watched the sky. As minutes passed, I watched as clouds rolled away and were replaced by hues of orange and pink; purple brushstrokes squeezed generously in between. Then all within seconds all was erased and covered in a blanket of stars…
He watched as the blue painted pasta flung itself at the cieling. It left a hideous blue mark.
painted, by every word they had ever slandered across her torn chest. by every word they had never said. by ever laugh, every taunt, every never ever.
I’m not sure what happens to us. Children paint with everything. If it is wet and can be smeared, it will be. Everywhere. All over the new carpet, wall paper, Boots, Spot… But somehow I know hardly any adults who paint.
Painted…. hm… never really painted anything, mostly sketched. But I remember when I was doing acting in highschool and college, I had to use Make-up for the first time, kinda weird… and annoying when I had to use alcohol to get it off, and uncomfortable when I had to get around my eyes.
It hides behind a painted mask
Uncertain of itself
Never daring to reveal
The beautiful thing that it is–
or is it ugly?
No one knows.
All it can be recognized as is
Exactly what it shows:
Painted.
I splattered red and blue against the canvas. Inky dots flecked my cheeks and hands and spattered up my arms. I threw yellow and pink, leaving un-even splotches of color covering the pasty vanilla of my palate.
once upon a time i painted a picture with paint the paint was yellow the picture was green. the green picture types well because it is blue the blue typist paints well because he is a bear the bear is a paint brush made from pubes of jesus
i used to paint a lot but i haven’t painted anything in a long time. i never found my own painting style. finally i gave up and started experimenting with other art forms. i realized it’s okay if i never paint again.
Painted. I painted a painting and it showed who this person was. It was beautifully painted as the sky, the cigarette butts, the ash, the creamy white I smeared bare handed, the smell that tinged my clothes, the colors that splashed across like dandelions. I painted.
I wish that I had more than just painted that day in the basement I wish that I had loved and thought and wrote done something to leave my mark. I wish that I had done more than left my initials….what if I’m forgotten forever. Left as only a senior picture in a frame that may not always be there what if I’m forgotten forever?
The walls were red. Like the sky on a summers now. I wanted a change, I wanted to feel the happiness that sunshine brings. I wanted yellow. I couldn’t help but through buckets of paint onto the wall. It was a mess. Just like me. Just like my life.
once upon a time there was a picture. I used to stare at it for hours at a time. It was beautiful. All it had, was a tree. But it was the most beautiful tree i had ever seen. i imagined myself sitting on it, daydreaming, reading, singing. i imagined building a tree house. going there when i was happy, or sad. sometimes alone, sometimes in company of someone very special. it has so many memories. no one understood how special it was. but a painting is not something to take for granted.
You painted me with pinks and reds. I watched in amazement. You are truly gifted. You are the best painter. Your fingers are your brushes. Your paints are embedded in my soft skin.
The walls in here were lifeless, but I changed that. What better way to breathe life into them than with the very thing that kept my own heart beating? I would re-open the wounds every day, even when the nurses strapped my arms to my back. I would paint a memory of the outside in rust-red, even after the man came in to wash the walls clean. They couldn’t stop me from making my cell beautiful, hurting myself to do it, and that terrified them.
I’ve always wished I could paint. anything, anywhere, at any time. i want it to look like a painting, but i want it to look real. i want people to look at it and feel a variety of different emotions because it means something different to every person. i want it to mean something to everyone.
He licked his painted lips that had been carefully glossed up. This little thing always got to him. Having lips like a girl when he had to dress like this to avoid the bookies after him. It always bothered him, just as bad as the skirt around his thighs. Fi’s plan had been fool proof because Tegan Ehno Nastasi being the type of guy that took pride in his masculinity, no one ever suspected that the lithe man could transform into a crossdresser with such ease. Just as much as everyone else, he had never expected himself to look pretty and it always seemed like the last touch of gloss was the final nail in his coffin. He looked like a freakin chick.
Painted red, painted blue… doesn’t matter. They’ll both look nice, eh!
I prefer green.
a room. a house. yellow in the attic like that story about the woman that wasn’t crazy but turned crazy because she was in the room –
i need to paint the living room in the house we’re moving into
i’ve painted myself into circles that i can’t get out of… not into a corner, per se, but in circles
blue, yellow, green, red, purple
new and fresh and hopeful
new paint reminds me of having a baby – decorating the nursery, getting all ready
lots of paint chips, spread out, “Which one do you like?” Newlyweds in a little starter up house.
smeared across the sky – wyoming and watching the northern lights; the grand tetons. I miss him.
hands with my preschoolers – blue for father’s day – “I love you daddy, and here are my hands NOT on the wall!”
past tense, interesting. Not that paint itself but something finished
The Thomas Crown Affair is my FAVORITE movie. I wish I were that bold; Renee Russo, not Pierce Brosnan. :-)
I’ve painted a lot of things. As a kid, I loved all things art. I think I’ve painting everything from my brother’s toys to my own face (Mom was quite mad about that one). But now, I no longer have that innocent imaginative streak. I miss it.
i painted a picture in high school that was an honest piece of trash. it was then that i realized that I didn’t have any sort of talent for painting. i took an art class in college anyways and found out that i just didn’t have talent for a paint brush. i painted a goddam da vinci with my fingers.
I painted the giant three-story house with its three levels of deck. I started on one end and just kept painting my way around without ever stopping. As soon as I got all the way around it was time to start over again.
Painted in blue and yellow and
An in-between green
This our story
You and me.
Best friends.
A perfect titration.
Balanced.
You and me.
Beautiful.
painted
I wish i could paint better than i do. then i could be like my friend morgan who always paints for her friends. I would paint pretty pictures with birds, flowers, suns ext. Gifts for birthday, anniversaries, and other things would be so much easier. So once upon a time there was this young women named morgan. She enjoyed painting… a lot.
The wall was a mask of painted colors. Crayons all crushed into the porous surface by the toddlers. Loopy stick figures and 4-stick-toes dogs looked at me with a loony smile.
I painted my nails recently with sparkly nail polish. Accessorising you could say. Is nail polish an extension of a girl (or a boy if that floats your boat) ‘s personality. Joseph Cambell
i painted a beautiful picture and it was ugly so i ate it… then i had loose stools for the rest of my life. and then i died… i miss that painted. it was very beautiful and it made sense just like your mom.
Painted means creativity. Life
action. Means that someone is still working to make things better and so can you. With just a brush.
I painted the body yesterday. I used red paint. It needed to be done only because it needed to be. Also I painted the town. Like in that Green Day song entitled “Ha Ha You’re Dead”.
I paint hope. I paint pleasure. I paint tears. I paint to great measures. I paint for feeling. I paint for dispair. And I’ll keep painting till I lose all my hair.
I painted the house yesterday. It was hard at first, finding the gloves, some cleaner, stir sticks and a paintbrush. It felt good though, changing the house from plain brown to deep indigo blue. I had missed the sky after so long inside.
I painted my heart into your hand. You washed it away . I painted my face to your liking. You turned away. I paint and paint but you never notice my creations. One day you will ,I think to myself. One day you will.