like toymakers and like toybreakers, they tinkered and toiled with others’ lives, tying and weaving strings between them for a sort of selfish entertainment.
Your touch is woven through my brain like a vine. Not just any vine but a parasitic vine. You have ruined me and it;s sad that I still love you. I love you more than anything. I want to tell you how I feel, but its impossible. None of my friends like you, and in all reality I’m suppose to hate. I should hate you with everything I have, But I love you more than that. I don’t think you could ever understand.
Woven into everything. Every little thing we do is woven into our life. One little decision can change everything. Just a small thing and BOOM, your life as you know it is over. And a whole new one begins. Just remember that when your deciding to go right or left.
I’m not even sure how it happened. It’s just like, one day I was on my own, doing my own thing and the next thing I knew she was everything that I thought about. She was it for me. I thought about her in everything I did. Would she approve? What would she be thinking if she saw me like this? Would she hate me? WOuld she want to be like me? man, that last one is what I thought of the most. It was the scariest thing i could have asked. WOuld she want to be like me? Man, I hope she would never turn into me. I mean, I’m bad news. Everybody knows that. But she, she never thought that about me. To her I was Superman, never doing anything wrong, always saying the right words, always the prince I promised I would be. She never caught on to my double life. Who I was in the real world. She was so far woven into her own fantasy world, the one that I just couldn’t get myself to come out of, that I never told her. And nobody else bothered to tell her either. She was just that innocent. Nobody wanted to break her. Especially me.
I have woven my own little basket of lies. I don’t know what to do next and I’m pretty sure that there’s no way I can get out of it this time. Just hope that no one finds out.
if i write another poem about branches that meet or do not meet
i give you license to shoot me, my long-suffering man,
who have had to put up with the interweaving about as long as i have
but who manages to make very little fuss about it.
what can be woven? fibers, cloths, the fabric of our lives? our lives twisitng and twining back and forth with those around us. tying us toghether, binding us close, inseparabwele we wee
There was a small piece of fabric woven in with the rest of the blanket. They didn’t match at all. The piece didn’t even fit well. But all the same, it looked as though it was meant to be attached to the beautiful fabric beneath.
Everywhere, we are surrounded by people- each person a different colored thread woven into the tapestry of our lives. A million individuals laced into one huge network of stories that we are often completely unaware of. They and mesh into our existence like so many strings on a loom, sometimes only crossing their color with ours once, but still adding- completing- the big picture that is our life. Our story.
Cycling through the mild, warm rain through the rolling hills of Nepal was something he would not soon forget, if ever. He was heading for a factory he had only heard whispers of to obtain a navy blue, striped kashmir sweater – hand woven in the traditional way by the old, wrinkled and battered hands of Nepalese woman.
Brilliantly colored wool, interonnected, as we are all in this world. All of our brilliant colors making the woven design more beautiful that just a single monochromatic floor scheme. If we could only see the brilliance.
he found the blanket in a library book, years ago, on another lonely excursion into the world.. a weathered copy of ‘stuart little’, to be superfluously exact. it was beige, old, stained with someone else’s love. thin, intricately folded, but with care and not cold calculation. he always imagined the child it belonged to: an orphan, an urchin; a simply sad, sad youth. all that he did know was that as he drifted off to sleep (his refuge, lover and only friend) in his shitty studio apartment was that it felt like love. and he cradled it, and stroked it and cried, and cried,
i love when your hair is woven
your the girl i chosen
better hurry cuz the heart to my door is closen
your deathly intoxicating like a poison
i see my wedding day and its your ring im holden
She slipped her fingers into his hand, and carefully let them inch their way down, so they wrapped around his fingers. Their fingers were woven together, intertwined and she felt grateful for the sense of security it was giving.
Everything in life intertwines. A kid that I will never meet’s existence could have been the cause of mine. How, who knows? But I do believe it happens. If I hadn’t found that penny on the ground, would I have gotten in my car that much sooner, and arrived at the intersection at the right time to be hit by someone running a red light?
everyne wants a piece of you. they say whatever they feel like and say its you.but its not .. you never can say what you really mean, cuase its always wrapped up in someones elses thought.
The strands of time, prime, and forces were woven strong in him, strong enough that when he closed his eyes he could see when those who came before him (and with him, and after him) had passed, had left their mark in the warp and weft of reality; he could see their names and signs, their colours and lights – and shadows; and he could see the elements they carried in the names of themselves and their gods.
The texture rubbed coarsely against my hands, as I ran my hands over her dress, the woven material catching on my nails. Her skin was as old and weathered as the trees that surrounded her ranch.
The intermingling of different strings to make one item.
Much like life. The strings of life aren’t all perfect or pretty on their own, but together they create something that has the power to warm hearts and lives around much like a blanket over the cold.
Tightly knit, woven into the hands of time, lay two sisters side by side. Their hearts beat in sync with one another, never ceasing or skipping a beat. Their numb hands twined together, fingers linked as they lay, side by side.
The woven basket carried the bright vegetables through the jungle. The young woman struggled underneath the weight, trying not to tilt toward the ground and destroy the food for her family.
My sadness is woven into my wiry nets of heart. My sadness is integrated. It is in the cold air bursting through the pipes. the sound of a siren miles away. The feeling of watching and feeling seperate. The head on the pine floor. The words you wrote months and months ago that I am still reading.
underneath this woven cotton shirt lies a kid that is unknown to the world. beaten away by society, forced to hide his true self. Woven in my deep chest is the real me desperate to get out.
Sitting on the woven plastic chair, I feel the hot summer air melding my sweaty legs to the material. I stand up to find awkward criss-crosses covering the backs of my legs, my skin feeling similar to the plastic itself.
the rope was taunt around my wrist. i struggled to move my arms but i had no energy left. they were woven too tightly anyways. i staggered to my feet before falling to the ground again. i was never going to get out of here.
like toymakers and like toybreakers, they tinkered and toiled with others’ lives, tying and weaving strings between them for a sort of selfish entertainment.
Your touch is woven through my brain like a vine. Not just any vine but a parasitic vine. You have ruined me and it;s sad that I still love you. I love you more than anything. I want to tell you how I feel, but its impossible. None of my friends like you, and in all reality I’m suppose to hate. I should hate you with everything I have, But I love you more than that. I don’t think you could ever understand.
1woven = when Oscilation varied essentially nothing
Woven into everything. Every little thing we do is woven into our life. One little decision can change everything. Just a small thing and BOOM, your life as you know it is over. And a whole new one begins. Just remember that when your deciding to go right or left.
My heart pounded. Woven with fear, each breath racing through my body. I took a step forward… and what happened next was inexplicable.
I’m not even sure how it happened. It’s just like, one day I was on my own, doing my own thing and the next thing I knew she was everything that I thought about. She was it for me. I thought about her in everything I did. Would she approve? What would she be thinking if she saw me like this? Would she hate me? WOuld she want to be like me? man, that last one is what I thought of the most. It was the scariest thing i could have asked. WOuld she want to be like me? Man, I hope she would never turn into me. I mean, I’m bad news. Everybody knows that. But she, she never thought that about me. To her I was Superman, never doing anything wrong, always saying the right words, always the prince I promised I would be. She never caught on to my double life. Who I was in the real world. She was so far woven into her own fantasy world, the one that I just couldn’t get myself to come out of, that I never told her. And nobody else bothered to tell her either. She was just that innocent. Nobody wanted to break her. Especially me.
The soulbraiders wove and wove
Their life threads crossing and catching
Entangling one another
As the braiders created
Interrelation
this is where i am supposed to be
i feel it it
wrap me up in your limbs
hold me tight
The love shared between two,
Is woven into song,
Into hearts,
Interlocking hands,
The sharing of smiles,
And laughter…
I have woven my own little basket of lies. I don’t know what to do next and I’m pretty sure that there’s no way I can get out of it this time. Just hope that no one finds out.
if i write another poem about branches that meet or do not meet
i give you license to shoot me, my long-suffering man,
who have had to put up with the interweaving about as long as i have
but who manages to make very little fuss about it.
what can be woven? fibers, cloths, the fabric of our lives? our lives twisitng and twining back and forth with those around us. tying us toghether, binding us close, inseparabwele we wee
There was a small piece of fabric woven in with the rest of the blanket. They didn’t match at all. The piece didn’t even fit well. But all the same, it looked as though it was meant to be attached to the beautiful fabric beneath.
baskets woven together to form lines in the road. full of imagination what could be in these boxes is yours to fill
The fates are at their looms, weaving futures for us mortals.
A string ends, a man dies. Another starts; a birth.
The threads of life create a tapestry that none can behold but is nevertheless beautiful.
Everywhere, we are surrounded by people- each person a different colored thread woven into the tapestry of our lives. A million individuals laced into one huge network of stories that we are often completely unaware of. They and mesh into our existence like so many strings on a loom, sometimes only crossing their color with ours once, but still adding- completing- the big picture that is our life. Our story.
Cycling through the mild, warm rain through the rolling hills of Nepal was something he would not soon forget, if ever. He was heading for a factory he had only heard whispers of to obtain a navy blue, striped kashmir sweater – hand woven in the traditional way by the old, wrinkled and battered hands of Nepalese woman.
Brilliantly colored wool, interonnected, as we are all in this world. All of our brilliant colors making the woven design more beautiful that just a single monochromatic floor scheme. If we could only see the brilliance.
he found the blanket in a library book, years ago, on another lonely excursion into the world.. a weathered copy of ‘stuart little’, to be superfluously exact. it was beige, old, stained with someone else’s love. thin, intricately folded, but with care and not cold calculation. he always imagined the child it belonged to: an orphan, an urchin; a simply sad, sad youth. all that he did know was that as he drifted off to sleep (his refuge, lover and only friend) in his shitty studio apartment was that it felt like love. and he cradled it, and stroked it and cried, and cried,
i love when your hair is woven
your the girl i chosen
better hurry cuz the heart to my door is closen
your deathly intoxicating like a poison
i see my wedding day and its your ring im holden
i had woven the last srtands of hair together for my braid, stepping onto my stage and taking my space in the spotlight i took a breath and smiled.
She slipped her fingers into his hand, and carefully let them inch their way down, so they wrapped around his fingers. Their fingers were woven together, intertwined and she felt grateful for the sense of security it was giving.
Like the wicker of a basket, their legs were woven tightly together in the fire of lust.
He, the boyfriend, walked in on them.
woven, oven, lovin’, muffin, huffing, coughing, stuffing, hugging.
tonight i’m sleeping with you on dark rocks and our faces are repeating, overlapping our hearts.
Shattered to pieces
my heart needs to be woven
from all the tears, rips and breaks
Anyone know how to Weave?
Everything in life intertwines. A kid that I will never meet’s existence could have been the cause of mine. How, who knows? But I do believe it happens. If I hadn’t found that penny on the ground, would I have gotten in my car that much sooner, and arrived at the intersection at the right time to be hit by someone running a red light?
My life is woven of memories, experiences now and then. I live in this tapestry.
everyne wants a piece of you. they say whatever they feel like and say its you.but its not .. you never can say what you really mean, cuase its always wrapped up in someones elses thought.
The strands of time, prime, and forces were woven strong in him, strong enough that when he closed his eyes he could see when those who came before him (and with him, and after him) had passed, had left their mark in the warp and weft of reality; he could see their names and signs, their colours and lights – and shadows; and he could see the elements they carried in the names of themselves and their gods.
The texture rubbed coarsely against my hands, as I ran my hands over her dress, the woven material catching on my nails. Her skin was as old and weathered as the trees that surrounded her ranch.
The intermingling of different strings to make one item.
Much like life. The strings of life aren’t all perfect or pretty on their own, but together they create something that has the power to warm hearts and lives around much like a blanket over the cold.
Tightly knit, woven into the hands of time, lay two sisters side by side. Their hearts beat in sync with one another, never ceasing or skipping a beat. Their numb hands twined together, fingers linked as they lay, side by side.
The woven basket carried the bright vegetables through the jungle. The young woman struggled underneath the weight, trying not to tilt toward the ground and destroy the food for her family.
“We’ve got new information on the pigtail snatcher.”
The sophisticated Det. Kimberly Jones Woven was called in to make sense of all the twists and turns in the case.
“We need to unravel this asap to find out if there is a link with the lace and twine killer.”
“I’ll get right on that Porky.”
My sadness is woven into my wiry nets of heart. My sadness is integrated. It is in the cold air bursting through the pipes. the sound of a siren miles away. The feeling of watching and feeling seperate. The head on the pine floor. The words you wrote months and months ago that I am still reading.
underneath this woven cotton shirt lies a kid that is unknown to the world. beaten away by society, forced to hide his true self. Woven in my deep chest is the real me desperate to get out.
Sitting on the woven plastic chair, I feel the hot summer air melding my sweaty legs to the material. I stand up to find awkward criss-crosses covering the backs of my legs, my skin feeling similar to the plastic itself.
the rope was taunt around my wrist. i struggled to move my arms but i had no energy left. they were woven too tightly anyways. i staggered to my feet before falling to the ground again. i was never going to get out of here.
In a closer inspection, i don’t feel like writing at the moment, let alone looking up the meaning of the word woven.