I have a make-up brush thats called a smudge brush. Recently though i’ve been thinking about getting a new brush. Also if your a lefty you must smudge your papers a lot.
there was a smudge ont eh window. the grease print left after the deed had been done. how much death was left int he world. he stared out through the grime, trying to piece it together. the body was cold, the blood dried and cracking. and the smudge remained. taunting, lingering, proof of the inferiority of the detective. i’ll be back, it said, i’m not done.
My hands smudge the ink of the words that they write
Trace your smile on photos until they fade from sight
They slowly destroy what they try to embrace
A Midas touch of destruction; what I love, I erase.
I saw a little smudge today. it was on the corner of my glasses. I walked around viewing the world with a slight softening around the edges of everything in the lower left quadrant of my vision, all because of a little smudge. it took me hours to notice it but only moments to wipe it away, yet it affected all that I saw. a smudge is a curious little thing.
It was the ever-present smudge of paint on her cheek that he fell in love with. It said so much about her, from her determination in finishing a job once started, to her spacy attitude towards life. It was her light-hearted smile and her absent-minded actions. It was the way she would unthinkingly brush her hair from her face and laugh at herself in the mirror later. It was the way she would hold paint-loaded brushes in her mouth, heedless of the flecks of color that would coat her lips. It was everything about her soul, everything about her that he grew to love.
She tries to clear the mud on her window so she can see but it just leaves a smudge. Mud splattered everywhere covering her pickup, where were you last night? What did you do?
There was a smudge across the painting. A pissed off FBI agent stood in the brightly lit gallery, gazing at the giant painting hanging on the blank wall. It was a perfect copy, hanging in the original’s place. Perfect, that is, except for the giant, multicolored smudge dragged across the canvas. Peter could almost hear Neil laughing.
He had a smudge of grease just above his left eye. I was tempted to lean foreward, whipping it off with my small white fingers, but I didn’t. I just stayed where I was with his dark brown eyes staring at me, like I was the last piece in a puzzle.
“Stop it,” he whispers. I look up, surprised.
“Stop what?” I ask.
“Stop tempting me.” He says, his voice low and husky. I lean closer, making him tense up.
“I can’t.” I choke out, small tears welling up, perching on my eyelids, a bird taking its last look at the ground before flight. “Fix me. Please.”
His hands shake as he reaches behind my head, pulling me close to him. He stops, his muscles trembling as he tries to make the choice.
I step foreward and make it for him.
His lips are warm and soft, like I imagined. At first he is frozen, unable to move, but finally he lets go and his hand finds its way to mine, clenching them like I am the last thing on earth that can save him. And that’s where we stay, hand in hand, breaking laws you can only imagine.
He saw a smudge of dirt on her pale face and he reached out to wipe it off, but she quickly disappeared into thin air. Suddenly, the whole world was crashing down on him and it terrified him. And then, a light blew in and he bolted up, waking in a cold sweat. It was all a dream. Nothing but a dream. But she was gone; his lover, his life, his one and only.
She can’t see any of his smudges.
I’m really trying hard not to see them.
I want to think hes a good person like she does.
But mostly i hope that she doesn’t have smudges.
I want to like them and not be offended by them.
I want to respect their opinion.
I want to think better of them.
I don’t want this burning feeling inside of me everytime they show their smudges.
My permanent record, smudged ink settling into a thick black ‘X’. It would serve to remind me of my crime, and I would not escape the guilt for a long time to come. Plus, detention for the rest of the year… seriously cramping my style.
Suck it up and stop crying. Here, take this towel and shove it in your mouth. Now swallow the rest, I don’t care how nauseous it makes you feel. Red eyes and shaky hands are unacceptable. And don’t you dare smudge your mascara!
She drew her hand across her face, smudging the ash that had landed on her cheek. She watched as her world burned. Nothing would survive the fire except herself. She had lost everything including her sister and all the home of their parents’ memories. Alaina was alone.
the smudge was annoying. it was stupid. and i wish i could have gotten off my ass to clean that shit off.. oh but no id rather be lazy and sit here.. sit here and stare at you. at your beautiful face. let me hold it?
He cupped her face with his hands. Sighed. Tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Her eyes never left his until he placed a kiss upon her forehead and another on her throat, which was right before they smudged her rouge with a gentle moan.
There was a large smudge on her face. He wasn’t quite sure what it was from. It was black, and looked somewhat like charcoal. She had a suspicious look on her face, as if she were hiding something. He started to ask, and hesitated.
“What?” she questioned, daring him to respond.
There was a smudge on her face from the mascara she wiped away when the tears made it run. Sometimes, she realized, it’s better just to cry than to say anything at all.
Like chocolate all over my face, ugly and sticky, I smear it with my fingertips as deftly as I dare. You laugh because you always laugh, and because I look like a fool. Because I am probably a fool, too. You can laugh, it’s alright. I don’t mind at all.
I hate smudges. They ruin nice artwork or writing. Or an outfit. But smudge rhymes with fudge. I like fudge. Smudge the fudge on this writing. Or just eat it. And make it artwork. Yippee smudge fudge.
That time when you were feeling low.
Like a smudge mark on hospital linoleum.
You sat there waiting for the diagnosis.
Because you knew your character was being tested, your hands drummed against your thigh. And also because no one was there to hold them.
It wasn’t that you wanted to face these troubles alone.
It’s just that you didn’t want anyone to see you cry.
Hold your breath, quiet your mind.
Exhale as if each atom is ode to life.
You are alive, you can be strong.
Oh no! My new white dress! I got a smudge on it. I knew I shouldn’t have drank the juice…but I was so thirsty. I hadn’t drank anything all day. It wasn’t worth it though. I was supposed to look nice for Trenton…but how can I do that now? I’m so disappointed, and I’m sure he will be too. Or am I overreacting? It’s just cranberry juice.
All gather ’round, What is there to see?
Beautiful jets crowded under veils.
Cong. Cong.
A sadistic bell rings.
Something morbid and watery smears across her face
– a smudge.
Just a smudge.
She wiped the smudge from his face. He smiled back at her. Why should they care what others thought about this moment? Right now, everything, everything, was perfect. They would keep it all. The smudges that were visible. Those that weren’t.
There was a smudge on the windshield, the last trace of a fly that was unlucky. But John had no time for that, his own life was about to be smudged out. He checked the rear view mirror, but could not tell if anyone was following him.
oil paint, over a blank canvas. dark blue colour softly smudged over the cream canvas. A smudge of lead pencil on a drawing. graphite all over your hand so whenever you move around the page you take the smudge with you.
Smudge. Thats like when you mistakenly have something on your hand and you mistakenly get it on something else. Normally happens in a single move or in many moves once you realize you’ve actually smudged something. Hmm.. smudge. It’s a very unlikely word.. meaning it’s rarely used in everyday talk.
Naked woman after naked woman — I put them in the positions I like. Then things get real dirty. I smudge each one of them all over. I do it all night long. I leave exhausted but I leave very satisfied; my hands all covered in wine charcoal.
Naked woman after naked woman — things get real dirty. I smudge each one. I do it all night long. I leave exhausted but I leave very satisfied; my hands all covered in wine charcoal.
Naked woman after naked woman — I smudge each one, doing all night long. I leave exhausted but leave very satisfied; my hands all covered in wine charcoal.
you look like the
birthmark i wanted
to have removed
as a child, the
smudge on my
left arm.
mother always
said “you look
beautiful, it makes
you unique” but
all i saw was
another reason
to curse the sun
for baring me
on a cross.
I looked down at the ink on the page. It was smudged again. The tears wouldn’t stop running down my face though. It hurt so bad to think about, much less write about. There is no way he would be able to read this letter now. I guess there was no point to continue writing it really, but I needed to say it and it needed to be said.
I lay in my bed for the fourth time that day. I don’t know why I was isolated in my room so often. All I knew was that my notebook made me feel better. I had no need for any interaction besides that with my pencil and the smudges on my paper. In every mark and every smear laid a memory. Memories of tears, inspiration, and determination. I knew that one day my writing would reach the world. All I had to do was stay confident in the only skill I had.
I had wondered why she dragged me into the bathroom. Leo and I really had hit it off.
“you have a smudge of lipstick on your front tooth!”, Janie had said.
I was mortified.
So that was why he kept staring at my mouth.
ink on the page of a postcard i write back to you, but i am not cautious because i am so frantic to fill you in. smear of blood on the wrist of a girl who tries to release her fear. with tears watering down her face.
I have a make-up brush thats called a smudge brush. Recently though i’ve been thinking about getting a new brush. Also if your a lefty you must smudge your papers a lot.
there was a smudge ont eh window. the grease print left after the deed had been done. how much death was left int he world. he stared out through the grime, trying to piece it together. the body was cold, the blood dried and cracking. and the smudge remained. taunting, lingering, proof of the inferiority of the detective. i’ll be back, it said, i’m not done.
My hands smudge the ink of the words that they write
Trace your smile on photos until they fade from sight
They slowly destroy what they try to embrace
A Midas touch of destruction; what I love, I erase.
I saw a little smudge today. it was on the corner of my glasses. I walked around viewing the world with a slight softening around the edges of everything in the lower left quadrant of my vision, all because of a little smudge. it took me hours to notice it but only moments to wipe it away, yet it affected all that I saw. a smudge is a curious little thing.
It was barely noticeable, little more than a smudge of dark red lipstick on the collar of his shirt.
She only liked to wear the pink variety.
It was the ever-present smudge of paint on her cheek that he fell in love with. It said so much about her, from her determination in finishing a job once started, to her spacy attitude towards life. It was her light-hearted smile and her absent-minded actions. It was the way she would unthinkingly brush her hair from her face and laugh at herself in the mirror later. It was the way she would hold paint-loaded brushes in her mouth, heedless of the flecks of color that would coat her lips. It was everything about her soul, everything about her that he grew to love.
She tries to clear the mud on her window so she can see but it just leaves a smudge. Mud splattered everywhere covering her pickup, where were you last night? What did you do?
There was a smudge across the painting. A pissed off FBI agent stood in the brightly lit gallery, gazing at the giant painting hanging on the blank wall. It was a perfect copy, hanging in the original’s place. Perfect, that is, except for the giant, multicolored smudge dragged across the canvas. Peter could almost hear Neil laughing.
He had a smudge of grease just above his left eye. I was tempted to lean foreward, whipping it off with my small white fingers, but I didn’t. I just stayed where I was with his dark brown eyes staring at me, like I was the last piece in a puzzle.
“Stop it,” he whispers. I look up, surprised.
“Stop what?” I ask.
“Stop tempting me.” He says, his voice low and husky. I lean closer, making him tense up.
“I can’t.” I choke out, small tears welling up, perching on my eyelids, a bird taking its last look at the ground before flight. “Fix me. Please.”
His hands shake as he reaches behind my head, pulling me close to him. He stops, his muscles trembling as he tries to make the choice.
I step foreward and make it for him.
His lips are warm and soft, like I imagined. At first he is frozen, unable to move, but finally he lets go and his hand finds its way to mine, clenching them like I am the last thing on earth that can save him. And that’s where we stay, hand in hand, breaking laws you can only imagine.
He saw a smudge of dirt on her pale face and he reached out to wipe it off, but she quickly disappeared into thin air. Suddenly, the whole world was crashing down on him and it terrified him. And then, a light blew in and he bolted up, waking in a cold sweat. It was all a dream. Nothing but a dream. But she was gone; his lover, his life, his one and only.
She can’t see any of his smudges.
I’m really trying hard not to see them.
I want to think hes a good person like she does.
But mostly i hope that she doesn’t have smudges.
I want to like them and not be offended by them.
I want to respect their opinion.
I want to think better of them.
I don’t want this burning feeling inside of me everytime they show their smudges.
My permanent record, smudged ink settling into a thick black ‘X’. It would serve to remind me of my crime, and I would not escape the guilt for a long time to come. Plus, detention for the rest of the year… seriously cramping my style.
Suck it up and stop crying. Here, take this towel and shove it in your mouth. Now swallow the rest, I don’t care how nauseous it makes you feel. Red eyes and shaky hands are unacceptable. And don’t you dare smudge your mascara!
Smudges, inky black
on a envelope just for me.
finger prints splayed
in the most curious of ways
She drew her hand across her face, smudging the ash that had landed on her cheek. She watched as her world burned. Nothing would survive the fire except herself. She had lost everything including her sister and all the home of their parents’ memories. Alaina was alone.
the smudge was annoying. it was stupid. and i wish i could have gotten off my ass to clean that shit off.. oh but no id rather be lazy and sit here.. sit here and stare at you. at your beautiful face. let me hold it?
He cupped her face with his hands. Sighed. Tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Her eyes never left his until he placed a kiss upon her forehead and another on her throat, which was right before they smudged her rouge with a gentle moan.
There was a large smudge on her face. He wasn’t quite sure what it was from. It was black, and looked somewhat like charcoal. She had a suspicious look on her face, as if she were hiding something. He started to ask, and hesitated.
“What?” she questioned, daring him to respond.
There was a smudge on her face from the mascara she wiped away when the tears made it run. Sometimes, she realized, it’s better just to cry than to say anything at all.
Like chocolate all over my face, ugly and sticky, I smear it with my fingertips as deftly as I dare. You laugh because you always laugh, and because I look like a fool. Because I am probably a fool, too. You can laugh, it’s alright. I don’t mind at all.
She had ink on her fingers. She’d been sketching all day. The smudges began appearing immediately. Small black spots of ink. Proof of her hard work.
I hate smudges. They ruin nice artwork or writing. Or an outfit. But smudge rhymes with fudge. I like fudge. Smudge the fudge on this writing. Or just eat it. And make it artwork. Yippee smudge fudge.
That time when you were feeling low.
Like a smudge mark on hospital linoleum.
You sat there waiting for the diagnosis.
Because you knew your character was being tested, your hands drummed against your thigh. And also because no one was there to hold them.
It wasn’t that you wanted to face these troubles alone.
It’s just that you didn’t want anyone to see you cry.
Hold your breath, quiet your mind.
Exhale as if each atom is ode to life.
You are alive, you can be strong.
Oh no! My new white dress! I got a smudge on it. I knew I shouldn’t have drank the juice…but I was so thirsty. I hadn’t drank anything all day. It wasn’t worth it though. I was supposed to look nice for Trenton…but how can I do that now? I’m so disappointed, and I’m sure he will be too. Or am I overreacting? It’s just cranberry juice.
All gather ’round, What is there to see?
Beautiful jets crowded under veils.
Cong. Cong.
A sadistic bell rings.
Something morbid and watery smears across her face
– a smudge.
Just a smudge.
She wiped the smudge from his face. He smiled back at her. Why should they care what others thought about this moment? Right now, everything, everything, was perfect. They would keep it all. The smudges that were visible. Those that weren’t.
There was a smudge on the windshield, the last trace of a fly that was unlucky. But John had no time for that, his own life was about to be smudged out. He checked the rear view mirror, but could not tell if anyone was following him.
oil paint, over a blank canvas. dark blue colour softly smudged over the cream canvas. A smudge of lead pencil on a drawing. graphite all over your hand so whenever you move around the page you take the smudge with you.
Smudge. Thats like when you mistakenly have something on your hand and you mistakenly get it on something else. Normally happens in a single move or in many moves once you realize you’ve actually smudged something. Hmm.. smudge. It’s a very unlikely word.. meaning it’s rarely used in everyday talk.
left handedness is a curse
they say
a smudge mars a whole essay
and apparently you die earlier.
they swear with the right hand
the band goes on the left.
marriage is short lived as well.
Naked woman after naked woman — I put them in the positions I like. Then things get real dirty. I smudge each one of them all over. I do it all night long. I leave exhausted but I leave very satisfied; my hands all covered in wine charcoal.
smudge where did you go i been trying to fing you the whole time ! mmmmmm I will give you bone here he comes
Naked woman after naked woman — things get real dirty. I smudge each one. I do it all night long. I leave exhausted but I leave very satisfied; my hands all covered in wine charcoal.
Naked woman after naked woman — I smudge each one, doing all night long. I leave exhausted but leave very satisfied; my hands all covered in wine charcoal.
After smudging nude women all night long, I leave very satisfied; my hands all covered in wine charcoal.
you look like the
birthmark i wanted
to have removed
as a child, the
smudge on my
left arm.
mother always
said “you look
beautiful, it makes
you unique” but
all i saw was
another reason
to curse the sun
for baring me
on a cross.
I looked down at the ink on the page. It was smudged again. The tears wouldn’t stop running down my face though. It hurt so bad to think about, much less write about. There is no way he would be able to read this letter now. I guess there was no point to continue writing it really, but I needed to say it and it needed to be said.
I lay in my bed for the fourth time that day. I don’t know why I was isolated in my room so often. All I knew was that my notebook made me feel better. I had no need for any interaction besides that with my pencil and the smudges on my paper. In every mark and every smear laid a memory. Memories of tears, inspiration, and determination. I knew that one day my writing would reach the world. All I had to do was stay confident in the only skill I had.
I had wondered why she dragged me into the bathroom. Leo and I really had hit it off.
“you have a smudge of lipstick on your front tooth!”, Janie had said.
I was mortified.
So that was why he kept staring at my mouth.
ink on the page of a postcard i write back to you, but i am not cautious because i am so frantic to fill you in. smear of blood on the wrist of a girl who tries to release her fear. with tears watering down her face.