the wrinkles in his face
pointed to a distant place
where his mind had learned to wander.
in his eyes was a hollow space
in his mouth was a bitter taste
in his mind, spring – of which he was much fonder
I’m feeling weathered today. Everything is getting colder as I am now in Indiana. The snow is falling and I saw my first frosted lake. I guess it feels sort of like my heart since he left, cold and frozen. Will anyone be willing to thaw it out?
The ship pulled into the docks, it’s three masts were cracked, one of them broken, the sails ripped and torn. Rails were snapped,and it looked as though there were no crew on board, until one woman stepped forward out of the shadows.
Etched into its crevices were the loving caresses of time- she had seen many suns. Her eyes were that of pebbles abandoned in the deep sea, yet were somehow more ghostly than a giggling version. It was lonely. It was lovely. And it was time to be alone.
Weathered or not you give a rats behind, we’re going forward, ” He yelled back at me, the walls of sodden wind smashing across his face and pulling back his beard and hair. And then, without waiting for my reply, he turned back to the peak and mounted another step. The raindrops swooped up at me on the updrafts and stabbed icily at my face and neck. I couldn’t leave him. I was alone, and inexperienced. I would never make it down in the storm. Without another option, I pulled my goggles down over my dry burning eyes, my scarf up against the warm damp of my heaving breath, and set myself windward, upslope and toward the razor peaks. Against the gale we raged, through the howling tempest, and I imagined God watching, laughing. Or perhaps stroking his beard in silent admiration at the courage or madness which he had invented.
He was an old man. Tan and crossed with wrinkles it was obvious to see he spent most o his time on the ocean. His hands were scarred and worn, trustworthy and steady with many years of work. His fishing outfit had once been a well kept green, but now it looked more gray, as it had been worn time and time again by waves filled with salt and storms filled with wind.
I want your heart in my hands, fresh, still beating. I’ll wrap my palms around it, feel it pump and push me against your spine, your bones. You’ll feel it too, and shake, and cry, but I’ll stay. I’ll take all I can weather for you, and I think you know it.
Weathered was the wood on the swing where I once played as a child. So many memories came to me, like the time when I got my first kiss, a warm June afternoon it was, such a lovely day it was.
His face was creased and brown, weathered into a coarse, gritty thing, like the red canyon rocks buffeted by harsh winds in the Midwest. And indeed, he was a harsh old rock buffeted by the winds that came along in life, and his honest, square face was life’s canvas.
An apple doll. Beef jerky. The barns of a house with the paint peeling off. Cupboards painted and then treated with chemicals and sandpaper to appear distressed, then charged more for. Also, somehow making it through, not necessarily unscathed, but making it through the storm. Strong.
weathered, tired, worn out, it’s just too much isn’t it? you don’t want to go on but you’re not exactly tired…just sleep, sleep, sleep makes everything better, sleep, sleep, sleep
the side of the old house was so weathered, you could see through two of the clapboards. I was frightened, but I held Kaylee’s hand tightly in my own. It was time to find out. Is this house haunted? Or is it just misunderstood?
if there are words that can describe my current state, weathered is definitely one of those. the me now is an shabby piece of nothingness. emptiness, doubt, weary, despair, they most of the time fill me. temporary sources of happiness may arise but the heavy feeling of uncertainty coupled with the other words i associate myself with now dominate these merry moments. :(
She felt like a weathered house, like her old house in fact, beaten down upon and hopeless in front of this girl that was her best friend’s twin. How could this be happening?
We had weathered storms before of greater intensity, however, the storm that was approaching us and that was predicted to hit land mass in the evening, looked more dangerous and had the potential to cause great destruction.
There is a a bench in the middle of the city. Its a beautiful bench but it’s weathered over the years. The bench holds a very tragic history, a story of a girl. In the end the girl died on the weathered bench…
Gnarled, like bark and it’s breaking and fraying and I think it probably feels leathery. But who knows? How long it’s been there? Or where it came from? Well-loved? Or just forgotten and left out in the cold?
He imagined it the way it once was. Brick displayed out to form what could never be a triangle. Here he would walk forward, here he would find his footing. On a weathered path all to perfect that naturally led to the end.
Weathered is the old apple tree in the yard. Weathered is the house that stands against the storms each year. Young and vibrant are the people who live in the house – but weathered are their spirits, broken and faded, old and finished, perhaps beyond repair. Long will the tree and the house stand after those people are gone, and their souls long vanished.
The brain is weathered. It has been used a little too much over the past few years. It is weathered from use. It is weathered from misuse. It has thought and it has done, it has learnt and it has had some fun. Either way it is exhausted. It needs a break. Which is why it will be fantastic to go away for a while and become unweathered. It is funny how I could go back to this page by mistake and then had the chance to write for another sixty seconds. I would like another sixty days for my mind to settle. That would be rather pleasant. It’s quite stormy right now. It is stormy almost everywhere. I remember the calm though.
How weathered the bed looked, worn lumpy where once it seemed smooth enough to be soft. How tired it was with her tossing life’s weight upon it, how wearied by her turning too late in twisted positions, poorer for her back than the bed’s. But exhausted, it nonetheless bore her whole, for if it left her, who would remain?
When I think about being weathered I think of sort of how I feel about high school now that I’m a senior. The whole scene is weathered, like.. I don’t like most of the kids here, and I’m ready for the next step, the next chapter in my life. I don’t like doing “high school” things like go to dances or parties. I’m really ready for it to be over. I don’t know if that’s a bad thing or not though.
adults are weathered children. imagination stripped to the bone. love drained of its sincerity. we’re nothing but empty shells pretending as if we were more than pattern-driven creatures desperately trying to blend.
the wrinkles in his face
pointed to a distant place
where his mind had learned to wander.
in his eyes was a hollow space
in his mouth was a bitter taste
in his mind, spring – of which he was much fonder
I’m feeling weathered today. Everything is getting colder as I am now in Indiana. The snow is falling and I saw my first frosted lake. I guess it feels sort of like my heart since he left, cold and frozen. Will anyone be willing to thaw it out?
The ship pulled into the docks, it’s three masts were cracked, one of them broken, the sails ripped and torn. Rails were snapped,and it looked as though there were no crew on board, until one woman stepped forward out of the shadows.
The rain boot sat outside in the storm. Funny it had been made to keep the water out.
Etched into its crevices were the loving caresses of time- she had seen many suns. Her eyes were that of pebbles abandoned in the deep sea, yet were somehow more ghostly than a giggling version. It was lonely. It was lovely. And it was time to be alone.
Weathered or not you give a rats behind, we’re going forward, ” He yelled back at me, the walls of sodden wind smashing across his face and pulling back his beard and hair. And then, without waiting for my reply, he turned back to the peak and mounted another step. The raindrops swooped up at me on the updrafts and stabbed icily at my face and neck. I couldn’t leave him. I was alone, and inexperienced. I would never make it down in the storm. Without another option, I pulled my goggles down over my dry burning eyes, my scarf up against the warm damp of my heaving breath, and set myself windward, upslope and toward the razor peaks. Against the gale we raged, through the howling tempest, and I imagined God watching, laughing. Or perhaps stroking his beard in silent admiration at the courage or madness which he had invented.
He was an old man. Tan and crossed with wrinkles it was obvious to see he spent most o his time on the ocean. His hands were scarred and worn, trustworthy and steady with many years of work. His fishing outfit had once been a well kept green, but now it looked more gray, as it had been worn time and time again by waves filled with salt and storms filled with wind.
But wait! I’m not ready.
His weathered boots said otherwise. Already out the door. Onto the pavement. The street.
To her door.
To ask.
To ask.
She said: She said: He nearly fell over, listening to what she said. And it was,
Yes.
The house has ben weathered. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen it. I spent my childhood here. I found myself here. It was here and then.
I want your heart in my hands, fresh, still beating. I’ll wrap my palms around it, feel it pump and push me against your spine, your bones. You’ll feel it too, and shake, and cry, but I’ll stay. I’ll take all I can weather for you, and I think you know it.
Just want you to know that I’m here.
Weathered was the wood on the swing where I once played as a child. So many memories came to me, like the time when I got my first kiss, a warm June afternoon it was, such a lovely day it was.
His face was creased and brown, weathered into a coarse, gritty thing, like the red canyon rocks buffeted by harsh winds in the Midwest. And indeed, he was a harsh old rock buffeted by the winds that came along in life, and his honest, square face was life’s canvas.
An apple doll. Beef jerky. The barns of a house with the paint peeling off. Cupboards painted and then treated with chemicals and sandpaper to appear distressed, then charged more for. Also, somehow making it through, not necessarily unscathed, but making it through the storm. Strong.
weathered, tired, worn out, it’s just too much isn’t it? you don’t want to go on but you’re not exactly tired…just sleep, sleep, sleep makes everything better, sleep, sleep, sleep
weathered by wind
weathered by time
weathered by worry
weathered by stress
weathered by cheap cosmetics
Weathered is like when something is worn out. Or something’s texture that is no longer present.
the side of the old house was so weathered, you could see through two of the clapboards. I was frightened, but I held Kaylee’s hand tightly in my own. It was time to find out. Is this house haunted? Or is it just misunderstood?
if there are words that can describe my current state, weathered is definitely one of those. the me now is an shabby piece of nothingness. emptiness, doubt, weary, despair, they most of the time fill me. temporary sources of happiness may arise but the heavy feeling of uncertainty coupled with the other words i associate myself with now dominate these merry moments. :(
She felt like a weathered house, like her old house in fact, beaten down upon and hopeless in front of this girl that was her best friend’s twin. How could this be happening?
Her hands were weathered and old, like paper and dry leaves. Her fingers, so delicate and wrinkled, so fragile yet precise, so warm in their touch.
We had weathered storms before of greater intensity, however, the storm that was approaching us and that was predicted to hit land mass in the evening, looked more dangerous and had the potential to cause great destruction.
There is a a bench in the middle of the city. Its a beautiful bench but it’s weathered over the years. The bench holds a very tragic history, a story of a girl. In the end the girl died on the weathered bench…
It’s old and it’s sad and there’s substance.
Gnarled, like bark and it’s breaking and fraying and I think it probably feels leathery. But who knows? How long it’s been there? Or where it came from? Well-loved? Or just forgotten and left out in the cold?
cold
feathers
arty
snow
love
drawing
scarf
hot chocolate
lemons
soccer
pudding
enemies
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There were lines of poetry scrawled on the faded pages of the weathered book. The beauty of those lines had not faded at all.
He imagined it the way it once was. Brick displayed out to form what could never be a triangle. Here he would walk forward, here he would find his footing. On a weathered path all to perfect that naturally led to the end.
Weathered is the old apple tree in the yard. Weathered is the house that stands against the storms each year. Young and vibrant are the people who live in the house – but weathered are their spirits, broken and faded, old and finished, perhaps beyond repair. Long will the tree and the house stand after those people are gone, and their souls long vanished.
Today I met an interesting person who seemed to have weathered many a storm in his life.
the weather today is hot and I feel the heat and I am sweating,
The brain is weathered. It has been used a little too much over the past few years. It is weathered from use. It is weathered from misuse. It has thought and it has done, it has learnt and it has had some fun. Either way it is exhausted. It needs a break. Which is why it will be fantastic to go away for a while and become unweathered. It is funny how I could go back to this page by mistake and then had the chance to write for another sixty seconds. I would like another sixty days for my mind to settle. That would be rather pleasant. It’s quite stormy right now. It is stormy almost everywhere. I remember the calm though.
old man sunny rainy day cloudy beaten … clothes shoes i dont know what else experienced
How weathered the bed looked, worn lumpy where once it seemed smooth enough to be soft. How tired it was with her tossing life’s weight upon it, how wearied by her turning too late in twisted positions, poorer for her back than the bed’s. But exhausted, it nonetheless bore her whole, for if it left her, who would remain?
The old man sat on the porch, his weathered face riddled with wrinkles that tell endless stories. He sat there, gently grazing each one.
When I think about being weathered I think of sort of how I feel about high school now that I’m a senior. The whole scene is weathered, like.. I don’t like most of the kids here, and I’m ready for the next step, the next chapter in my life. I don’t like doing “high school” things like go to dances or parties. I’m really ready for it to be over. I don’t know if that’s a bad thing or not though.
she weathered the storm that was sprung upon her. there was nothing to do but let it go at this point, feel what she felt
adults are weathered children. imagination stripped to the bone. love drained of its sincerity. we’re nothing but empty shells pretending as if we were more than pattern-driven creatures desperately trying to blend.
It is a past tense of weather and It is called wear away or change the appearance ce
pretty as pink
fresh as green
deep as blue
compassionate as purple
and yet as old as the hills