weaving is fun. you get to show the world your creativity. you can weave baskets, clothing, and other things. we don’t use this method anymore, but it was used alot in the older days.
This only came to my attention when I started being paraded around by my boyf, but I have to weave constantly to avoid being killed wherever I go. I’m not even all that small. Average. And yet. I weave to and fro like a prairie dog popping out of different holes xD
I wove a tangled tail of dreams. they intertwined my thoughts to yours. a dream intersected by the hopes of another. And when we rest it all falls into a place of imagination. brought to us by the weaver.
Weaving through space and time, never looking back – our journey together was almost supernatural, the way we loved each other was different than anything else. Our love went deeper, it was stronger – it lasted through eternity, it wove through space and time.
She ran a brush through her hair thoughtfully. This weave doesn’t look real at all, she decided. I gotta go back to that stylist and demand my money back. I wonder if she’s still there in her van?
hair
beautiful tapestries
women working together
community
warm nights
firelight
soft fabrics
family heirlooms
memories
working with my hands
making something memorable
making something distinctive
flowing
fluidity
movement
racing
moving through a crow
holding it in my hands
The mouse weaved in and out of the tall, waving grass, and onto my blanket. It sat there, holding some sort of small grain, staring up at me as if I was a god. Then it run, back into wild, in and out of flowers and danger.
The cat weaved through the grass with the stealth of a bug. It was silent- deadly. It would do anything to protect its master. The beast would not win.
Weave, the way our hands intertwine in harmony. No one else can feel the electricity that I feel when we touch. Our hands fit together like they were made for nothing less. Your hand, big and rough and mine small and gentle. Opposites it seems, but somehow they come together to bring us
Taking the yarn in one hand and the loom in the other, Jasmine began to weave a beautiful scraf. She began to think of all of the times she sat with your grandmother listening to the many stories nana would weave through time. The stories were not unlike the scraf. Beautiful, long, and lasting. Each was a treasure to behold.
Some nights, I want to weave my own story and go out into the darkness with a direction. I want to drift through every light and feel the warm presence of time well spent. I want to write my own future, not watch as someone else does it for me.
The rough feel of
twine looped through her calloused hands
strong from work
braiding the strands
using memorized maps
patterns to the art
she adds hollowed shells
and sharks tooth
the beads of glass the white man gave them
when ivory was rare
and then it is done
and she wraps it around her thin neck
her mad horse eyes
like fire from an indian sun.
you can weave a basket, with precision and patience, but a hammer is no tool for that. our world is a weave of cultures ethnic background and everything. weave rhymes with steve.
The basket was an old one, gnarled and worn by the years, the rushes weaved into a timeless piece of history, the dried walls holding memories and food and clothes and life, in essence. The old woman smiled, and in the corner of the room her hands, old and gnarled by the years, wove on.
In. Out. Through. Without. Within. Simply the stupidest shit you’ll ever hear. The weirdest folk you’ll ever meet. Snow, and snow, and snow. Last cigarette of the day until you wwwwwwweave through the crowd to your final destination.
Mama runs her fingers through my thin waves, weaving the three distinct parts into one entity. Her long dark hair falls across the bare skin of her left shoulder. I envied that hair. My father used to braid Mama’s hair too, using his thick meaty hands to hold the strands back from her face. That was the only affection he could show her.
Our hearts weaved together like entwining ivy only to be ripped apart by ticking clocks. The image of us together is painted on the insides of my eyelids so that every time I dream I long for our relationship, but when I wake up a cacophony of emotions play the tragic symphony of realization that we could never be.
I unknowingly weave in and out of the road. Unaware that my desperate attempt to recapture the idiotic thrill of my youth would destroy the joy I’ve earned.
Weaving back and forth, another master piece. A spiders dream, a weavers hope. Catch, ensnare. back forth up down. pain goes on and so does the web of lies. keep on weaving, hypocrite!
Weave. A Hair Weave is a sure way for people to notice that you are losing your hair. It doesn’t hide anything except your own secret that you think you are keeping to yourself.
I will take her hair,
spray the strands across the desk
and ply the ribbon from the nest
distressed and dislodged from her eyes
her sunken, blackened, trivial eyes
I wove my heart into her destiny, she wove my words into her art. we talked of weaving the world into a little ball, we ended up rolling our words into little birds.
Weave a basket with ferns. Or weave words into a line and create a beautiful sentence. Rather, weave words and ideas into one. Catalyst them together. Form a beautiful, eloquent disaster or revolution. Interweaving is an art.
The three women sat together, the only sound the clicking of their needles. Click. Click. The brilliant yarn formed shimmering sheaths of cloth, until it was time. Then, each brought out a pair of scissors. Without a word, they began to cut. Snip. Snip. The end of life, somewhere.
The weave from the loom was exquisitely well wrought and managed to amalgamate the townsfolk in a magnificent display of awe and fancy. The weave turned out to be indeed of the magenta variety and managed not to cause any panic.
Her eyes closed, she reached towards the loom and began to rapidly pluck at the yarn, deftly weaving together strand after brilliant strand, until, finally, she had produced a fantastic tapestry depicting the most divine scene anyone had laid eyes upon. She opened her cloudy blue eyes. Blind.
Their lives intertwined, threads that crossed and weaved over the years. It formed a bizarre tapestry that clashed more often than not. But it was them, how they were together.
weaving in and out. hair. pieces of thread connecting to create one thing, the labryinth, the matrix, whatever the fuck dave egger’s calls it. snowshoes, how you spread your weight across it. weave in and out. cars moving fast past you as you dodge back and forth sprinting trying to make sure you get to the other side without killing yourself. the letters interconnecting, creating a word
our stories have been woven together
our destinies are forever intertwined
even if we tried
we couldn’t change what is already set
so come with me to a place
where you’ll live forever in my heart
you and me, never apart
even if someone came and attempted a try
they coudn’t unclasp our hands with all their might
Michele uscì dalla camera e si ritrovò in un salotto che non era il suo, non poteva capacitarsi della cosa. Di colpo si ricordò che era andato il giorno precedente in una merceria e c’era una sartina che tesseva e tesseva.
She wove her broken hands between my strands of hair and produced a sturdy braid. The strand of cloth wove around itself and clasped the braid shut– I was ready for my day.
Her weave was stiff and dry like a plank on an old sea shanty, she sat their and waited popping her bubblegum and playing with her giant gold hoop earings. Waiting. “I’ll have the 2 pc chicken to go, please.”
Weaving a tapestry with reds and silvers, she wanted to make the salmon of knowledge gleam upon a sea of blood. While Mother Ireland bled, she worked, as her husband’s sword and shield lay rusty with his enemy’s plasma beside her.
The screams had been shut out of her head long ago. Her son’s shadow lay against the wall like a tapestry of its own.
weaving more time into my day for enjoyment.
weaving more health into my life so that I can have more time in my day.
That’s the most difficult part of life.
weaving is fun. you get to show the world your creativity. you can weave baskets, clothing, and other things. we don’t use this method anymore, but it was used alot in the older days.
This only came to my attention when I started being paraded around by my boyf, but I have to weave constantly to avoid being killed wherever I go. I’m not even all that small. Average. And yet. I weave to and fro like a prairie dog popping out of different holes xD
I wove a tangled tail of dreams. they intertwined my thoughts to yours. a dream intersected by the hopes of another. And when we rest it all falls into a place of imagination. brought to us by the weaver.
Weaving through space and time, never looking back – our journey together was almost supernatural, the way we loved each other was different than anything else. Our love went deeper, it was stronger – it lasted through eternity, it wove through space and time.
She ran a brush through her hair thoughtfully. This weave doesn’t look real at all, she decided. I gotta go back to that stylist and demand my money back. I wonder if she’s still there in her van?
hair
beautiful tapestries
women working together
community
warm nights
firelight
soft fabrics
family heirlooms
memories
working with my hands
making something memorable
making something distinctive
flowing
fluidity
movement
racing
moving through a crow
holding it in my hands
The mouse weaved in and out of the tall, waving grass, and onto my blanket. It sat there, holding some sort of small grain, staring up at me as if I was a god. Then it run, back into wild, in and out of flowers and danger.
chords, old persons, clothes, carpets, you needa have patience, colors, cozyness
The cat weaved through the grass with the stealth of a bug. It was silent- deadly. It would do anything to protect its master. The beast would not win.
Weave, the way our hands intertwine in harmony. No one else can feel the electricity that I feel when we touch. Our hands fit together like they were made for nothing less. Your hand, big and rough and mine small and gentle. Opposites it seems, but somehow they come together to bring us
Taking the yarn in one hand and the loom in the other, Jasmine began to weave a beautiful scraf. She began to think of all of the times she sat with your grandmother listening to the many stories nana would weave through time. The stories were not unlike the scraf. Beautiful, long, and lasting. Each was a treasure to behold.
Some nights, I want to weave my own story and go out into the darkness with a direction. I want to drift through every light and feel the warm presence of time well spent. I want to write my own future, not watch as someone else does it for me.
The rough feel of
twine looped through her calloused hands
strong from work
braiding the strands
using memorized maps
patterns to the art
she adds hollowed shells
and sharks tooth
the beads of glass the white man gave them
when ivory was rare
and then it is done
and she wraps it around her thin neck
her mad horse eyes
like fire from an indian sun.
you can weave a basket, with precision and patience, but a hammer is no tool for that. our world is a weave of cultures ethnic background and everything. weave rhymes with steve.
The basket was an old one, gnarled and worn by the years, the rushes weaved into a timeless piece of history, the dried walls holding memories and food and clothes and life, in essence. The old woman smiled, and in the corner of the room her hands, old and gnarled by the years, wove on.
In. Out. Through. Without. Within. Simply the stupidest shit you’ll ever hear. The weirdest folk you’ll ever meet. Snow, and snow, and snow. Last cigarette of the day until you wwwwwwweave through the crowd to your final destination.
Mama runs her fingers through my thin waves, weaving the three distinct parts into one entity. Her long dark hair falls across the bare skin of her left shoulder. I envied that hair. My father used to braid Mama’s hair too, using his thick meaty hands to hold the strands back from her face. That was the only affection he could show her.
duck and weave, duck and weave, they kept yelling duck and weave, i did not understand how was i supposed to weave a duck under these circumstances?
Our hearts weaved together like entwining ivy only to be ripped apart by ticking clocks. The image of us together is painted on the insides of my eyelids so that every time I dream I long for our relationship, but when I wake up a cacophony of emotions play the tragic symphony of realization that we could never be.
I unknowingly weave in and out of the road. Unaware that my desperate attempt to recapture the idiotic thrill of my youth would destroy the joy I’ve earned.
Weaving back and forth, another master piece. A spiders dream, a weavers hope. Catch, ensnare. back forth up down. pain goes on and so does the web of lies. keep on weaving, hypocrite!
Weave. A Hair Weave is a sure way for people to notice that you are losing your hair. It doesn’t hide anything except your own secret that you think you are keeping to yourself.
Black people have them. I think they are kind of dirty… Why have fake hair? Use and show off the hair you were born with… Just saying…
I tore someone’s weave out once. Funniest shit ever!
I went to Savannah and saw the Gullah men on the streets weave beautiful baskets and roses. The air smelled of the ocean and sweet reeds.
I will take her hair,
spray the strands across the desk
and ply the ribbon from the nest
distressed and dislodged from her eyes
her sunken, blackened, trivial eyes
I wove my heart into her destiny, she wove my words into her art. we talked of weaving the world into a little ball, we ended up rolling our words into little birds.
Weave a basket with ferns. Or weave words into a line and create a beautiful sentence. Rather, weave words and ideas into one. Catalyst them together. Form a beautiful, eloquent disaster or revolution. Interweaving is an art.
The three women sat together, the only sound the clicking of their needles. Click. Click. The brilliant yarn formed shimmering sheaths of cloth, until it was time. Then, each brought out a pair of scissors. Without a word, they began to cut. Snip. Snip. The end of life, somewhere.
The weave from the loom was exquisitely well wrought and managed to amalgamate the townsfolk in a magnificent display of awe and fancy. The weave turned out to be indeed of the magenta variety and managed not to cause any panic.
Her eyes closed, she reached towards the loom and began to rapidly pluck at the yarn, deftly weaving together strand after brilliant strand, until, finally, she had produced a fantastic tapestry depicting the most divine scene anyone had laid eyes upon. She opened her cloudy blue eyes. Blind.
Their lives intertwined, threads that crossed and weaved over the years. It formed a bizarre tapestry that clashed more often than not. But it was them, how they were together.
weaving in and out. hair. pieces of thread connecting to create one thing, the labryinth, the matrix, whatever the fuck dave egger’s calls it. snowshoes, how you spread your weight across it. weave in and out. cars moving fast past you as you dodge back and forth sprinting trying to make sure you get to the other side without killing yourself. the letters interconnecting, creating a word
i see your fingers intertwined between mine; woven together like they had been there for ages. i couldn’t see them any other way.
our stories have been woven together
our destinies are forever intertwined
even if we tried
we couldn’t change what is already set
so come with me to a place
where you’ll live forever in my heart
you and me, never apart
even if someone came and attempted a try
they coudn’t unclasp our hands with all their might
Michele uscì dalla camera e si ritrovò in un salotto che non era il suo, non poteva capacitarsi della cosa. Di colpo si ricordò che era andato il giorno precedente in una merceria e c’era una sartina che tesseva e tesseva.
Oh I made the bestest pie ever and the top pie crust i weaved it so it was pretty looking
She wove her broken hands between my strands of hair and produced a sturdy braid. The strand of cloth wove around itself and clasped the braid shut– I was ready for my day.
Her weave was stiff and dry like a plank on an old sea shanty, she sat their and waited popping her bubblegum and playing with her giant gold hoop earings. Waiting. “I’ll have the 2 pc chicken to go, please.”
Weaving a tapestry with reds and silvers, she wanted to make the salmon of knowledge gleam upon a sea of blood. While Mother Ireland bled, she worked, as her husband’s sword and shield lay rusty with his enemy’s plasma beside her.
The screams had been shut out of her head long ago. Her son’s shadow lay against the wall like a tapestry of its own.
weaving more time into my day for enjoyment.
weaving more health into my life so that I can have more time in my day.
That’s the most difficult part of life.