someone did something creative or tried to and failed or succeeded –peoples eye for the painted is always a crazy one, and even finger painting is phenomenal to some…
vannessa
(flowers for you and words for someone else
eight letters
and another fifteen or so)
I painted all night, colors slashing white, filling it making it whole, making me whole
only to see the next day in the morning light that it was nothing like I thought it would be.
I want to paint my wall with blackboard paint. To expel my creative energy on the walls in my room, my haven. Explaining who I am to the world, and even to myself.
Sabena
my house today it use to be red now its blue, im kinda feeling sad so i thought that it would be fitting, my door is yellow because they say the color yellow stimulants the hunger in your brain, if not its the most wonderful color of vermillion <3
james wilson
My painted face, your dirty hair, threads throughout. I love how you look so covered in sun and summer.
That was the first time I ever loved you, and I never stopped.
There was a soundtrack to their dating days. Most of it was whatever was playing on the Country Radio Station. She would listen to the songs and analyze the words, while he would analyze her. There was a song about a painting that they loved. None of the songs were written for them. None fit into their situation perfectly. However; there were some that just clicked.
Kari Shadrick
He painted a smile on his face and turned back to her. She looked away. They both knew the words spoken in the course of the last five minutes changed everything. She no longer looked at him with the same longing, but rather, with hesitation and suspicion. She saw the feigned smile and knew that their relationship had changed forever.
Lydia
When she first headed West, her hand was guided by a strong man, the home stable and quaint, and her face clean, innocent, and hopeful. Now, her hand is pulled by shameless men, the house is crowded and a cesspool, and her face is a carefully painted mask.
And if you thought that the reason we spoke ink on each other’s skin was simple, you’re wrong. And if you wondered why when the clouds moved across the sky, there color wasn’t really their, you’re wrong. You and I placed our hands together and we became art, we were like a dream, a colorful, vibrant dream.
Today my face is painted on. I’m not painted, but the only features I have are. I have no eyes that you have not put there. I have no nose but the one you brushed on my skin in navy oils.
David snickered as he picked gently at John’s nails, which still had traces of being painted. “Don’t laugh,” John pouted, “It was already bad enough having to wear that pink dress and heels today.” David only grinned and sucked one of the paint-flecked fingers into his mouth.
There’s a face that’s painted onto my head. It laughs, sometimes, when I don’t really want to laugh (I really just want to sit there and ignore everything around me). But mostly it’s just stoic, and those are the times I’m crying. And that… that’s just fantastic, really.
samantha
I imagine his soul as a painting. A beautiful abstract painting, with shapes and colors bursting from the canvas. I can’t help but stare at this beautiful painting. It overtakes my own soul with joy that is unexplainable. I want you to see this painting; this painting that has collided with my own.
The colours collided in a dramatic overlapping of glorious painted blues, oranges, purples, yellows, every colour one could imagine. The girl couldn’t contain her laughter, and it burst from behind her blinding smile at last. The boy wore a similar expression as he grasped the brush filled with all the colours of the rainbow, his eyes sparkling with delight and mirth as they surveyed the scene around them.
The painted ladies, I called them. Or the powdered pigeons. Either way they were a gaggle of well dressed ladies, shrouded in hairspray and perfume like they were prepared for a sewerage plant headwind, and chattering in an animated fashion. They crossed the street and turned the corner, out of sight. I laughed to myself. That might be me one day.
Dayle Morrison
today when i was working i dont know how many time i heard the little 5 year old ask we we were going to paint . they were so excited to , and i hated telling them they had to wait till next year .
janniel
There I stand, in the corner. Oh yeah, the floor looks great now, the black and white dripping really gave it the edge my appartment needed. But where do I go now?
dont think just write. painted faces, painted wings. just painting.covering up what was there before, creating something new. a clean slate. but what if the old paint shows through? what if your cover is too thin? what happens then? just another layer. cover cover cover.
Haylie Lovett
i have my room painted
it was white, and now its pink. i like pink.
in my view, girls should be pinky. :)
Carmen
Her face was painted. Was this to mask her deeper darker emotions? I stared at her, willing her to look at me. Would she recognise me? Did I want her to? The pattern on her face was unusual, I didn’t recognise it, it wasn’t one of mine, it didn’t do her justice.
I painted this little portrait when i was about 6 years old. its one of my favorites because it can be seen my innocence as a child and how i thought things were actually like and what differences my family had. It can be seen how children see things differently as when they grow up, there minds aren´t as well developed as when they grow up and things are seen from a different perspective.
Ana Milena
it had been a difficult summer, the year before, with no job so this year I was determined that I would find some work. But nobody likes an asshole so all I was able to get was a job painting houses. It pretty much fucking blows but I’m gonna be so ripped man! YEAH!
sebastian
The sun paints things with light at various times of the day. Things are painted best during the magic hours: the time just before/after sunrise, and the time just before/after sunset. Look for ways the sun paints our world, and you will never lack for something beautiful to behold. By the way, the real artist is God.
Brian Schutt
She painted the mason jar shut with super glue in a desperate attempt to permanently trap the deadly thing that lay inside – invisible, mysterious,and fatal.
All around the streets where painted with litter and trash as the violence raged from the side walk. The sewage had spilled over the gutters and boiled out much like the homeless and drunks did to the metropolis. A bottle thrown and along the sides the streets no longer painted with spray but with blood of those the city wished to through down to the gutters once more.
She was a painted lady, down on her luck. Rain poured on her, cold, and wet. This liquor store will be easy for her to knock off. slowly she opened the door..
Stick
Painted donuts. Donuts and bacon. Red, white and sprinkles. I’ve always been dedicated to the flag and all of it’s flavors. Except blue. I fucking hate blue. Blue balls, black and blue.
Anfernee
You always tell me to paint my nails, I don’t know why. Today, just walking, just like every day we walk, it’s great. Mild, sunshine, clear sky. You tell me that I’m beautiful, I’m beginning to believe you. You tell me you don’t think I love you, I do. More than you know. So when I grab your hand, I really want to hold it. When I turn around when I’m leaving I want you to hold me. I love you.
I believed that harmonies were beautiful colors
every time I painted it sharpened my harmony.
Yesterday I tried to paint you but the colors
weren’t as beautiful as I had thought they were.
Today I look back at the painted yet so empty
canvas and wonder why you didn’t work out..
I had everything planned out and everything was
going great until the paintbrush hit the paper.
It started to paint across the soft paper canvas
But with every stroke it came out distorted and wrong.
The beautiful picture I had beautifully framed in my head
was not as easy to paint as I thought it was going to be.
So I’ve given up on painting pictures and have moved on
to bigger and better things…poetry to open my soul.
Poetry to express my true self and how I feel within
instead of trying to paint something I wish could truly be.
Gabby
I painted a picture of a cat sleeping on top of the refrigerator. I then went to an art convention and sold the painting for a mere twelve dollars to a man wearing tight blue pants. It was weird.
Jordan C.
I helped my sister paint her house. When we started, everything seemed to be going well. That is until we realized that the back of the house had already been painted….yellow! Now, she has the only house on the block that faces the street with a red front, and a yellow back!
The fence needed to be painted but I wasn’t going to do it. It was just too much damn work and I am not into it. Let it chip, flake, and rot. Who cares, I don’t. At least not anymore, ever since that damn man took off for parts unknown.
i had painted another picture that reflected my emotions. my mom has never seen any of them, mostly because she wouldn’t understand. no one understands. sometimes i don’t even
sami
paintings of robust women with porcelain skin. old times when the truth was real and not an abstract figure with no purpose except some existential .
my grandpa always helped me paint. my first painting was of flowers when i was four he did a lot of it but it still hangs in my room. I mostly painted flowers but haven’t painted in about 1 or 2 years, i want to, thought i was good..
sami
The fake smile was craggy and a bit dried out. I couldn’t make heads or tails of it. On a six-foot-tall frog statue, it just didn’t seem to belong…
the painted picture looked as if it was out of this world. It’s bright colors excited me, haunted me, and it even felt as if they knew me. They described moments of my life through color.
someone did something creative or tried to and failed or succeeded –peoples eye for the painted is always a crazy one, and even finger painting is phenomenal to some…
(flowers for you and words for someone else
eight letters
and another fifteen or so)
I painted all night, colors slashing white, filling it making it whole, making me whole
only to see the next day in the morning light that it was nothing like I thought it would be.
Painted. Painted was the sunset, but painted was my troubled emotions. Painted across my chest was the word “Nothing”. And that is what I felt I was.
I want to paint my wall with blackboard paint. To expel my creative energy on the walls in my room, my haven. Explaining who I am to the world, and even to myself.
my house today it use to be red now its blue, im kinda feeling sad so i thought that it would be fitting, my door is yellow because they say the color yellow stimulants the hunger in your brain, if not its the most wonderful color of vermillion <3
My painted face, your dirty hair, threads throughout. I love how you look so covered in sun and summer.
That was the first time I ever loved you, and I never stopped.
There was a soundtrack to their dating days. Most of it was whatever was playing on the Country Radio Station. She would listen to the songs and analyze the words, while he would analyze her. There was a song about a painting that they loved. None of the songs were written for them. None fit into their situation perfectly. However; there were some that just clicked.
He painted a smile on his face and turned back to her. She looked away. They both knew the words spoken in the course of the last five minutes changed everything. She no longer looked at him with the same longing, but rather, with hesitation and suspicion. She saw the feigned smile and knew that their relationship had changed forever.
When she first headed West, her hand was guided by a strong man, the home stable and quaint, and her face clean, innocent, and hopeful. Now, her hand is pulled by shameless men, the house is crowded and a cesspool, and her face is a carefully painted mask.
And if you thought that the reason we spoke ink on each other’s skin was simple, you’re wrong. And if you wondered why when the clouds moved across the sky, there color wasn’t really their, you’re wrong. You and I placed our hands together and we became art, we were like a dream, a colorful, vibrant dream.
Today my face is painted on. I’m not painted, but the only features I have are. I have no eyes that you have not put there. I have no nose but the one you brushed on my skin in navy oils.
David snickered as he picked gently at John’s nails, which still had traces of being painted. “Don’t laugh,” John pouted, “It was already bad enough having to wear that pink dress and heels today.” David only grinned and sucked one of the paint-flecked fingers into his mouth.
There’s a face that’s painted onto my head. It laughs, sometimes, when I don’t really want to laugh (I really just want to sit there and ignore everything around me). But mostly it’s just stoic, and those are the times I’m crying. And that… that’s just fantastic, really.
I imagine his soul as a painting. A beautiful abstract painting, with shapes and colors bursting from the canvas. I can’t help but stare at this beautiful painting. It overtakes my own soul with joy that is unexplainable. I want you to see this painting; this painting that has collided with my own.
Painted faces. I try not to be one of them, but too often I find m self buying into the horrible standard of beauty so many people have. Perfection.
The colours collided in a dramatic overlapping of glorious painted blues, oranges, purples, yellows, every colour one could imagine. The girl couldn’t contain her laughter, and it burst from behind her blinding smile at last. The boy wore a similar expression as he grasped the brush filled with all the colours of the rainbow, his eyes sparkling with delight and mirth as they surveyed the scene around them.
The painted ladies, I called them. Or the powdered pigeons. Either way they were a gaggle of well dressed ladies, shrouded in hairspray and perfume like they were prepared for a sewerage plant headwind, and chattering in an animated fashion. They crossed the street and turned the corner, out of sight. I laughed to myself. That might be me one day.
today when i was working i dont know how many time i heard the little 5 year old ask we we were going to paint . they were so excited to , and i hated telling them they had to wait till next year .
There I stand, in the corner. Oh yeah, the floor looks great now, the black and white dripping really gave it the edge my appartment needed. But where do I go now?
dont think just write. painted faces, painted wings. just painting.covering up what was there before, creating something new. a clean slate. but what if the old paint shows through? what if your cover is too thin? what happens then? just another layer. cover cover cover.
i have my room painted
it was white, and now its pink. i like pink.
in my view, girls should be pinky. :)
Her face was painted. Was this to mask her deeper darker emotions? I stared at her, willing her to look at me. Would she recognise me? Did I want her to? The pattern on her face was unusual, I didn’t recognise it, it wasn’t one of mine, it didn’t do her justice.
what if life was a painted picture
painted by god
painted with colors
with emotions
painted
for us
I painted this little portrait when i was about 6 years old. its one of my favorites because it can be seen my innocence as a child and how i thought things were actually like and what differences my family had. It can be seen how children see things differently as when they grow up, there minds aren´t as well developed as when they grow up and things are seen from a different perspective.
it had been a difficult summer, the year before, with no job so this year I was determined that I would find some work. But nobody likes an asshole so all I was able to get was a job painting houses. It pretty much fucking blows but I’m gonna be so ripped man! YEAH!
The sun paints things with light at various times of the day. Things are painted best during the magic hours: the time just before/after sunrise, and the time just before/after sunset. Look for ways the sun paints our world, and you will never lack for something beautiful to behold. By the way, the real artist is God.
She painted the mason jar shut with super glue in a desperate attempt to permanently trap the deadly thing that lay inside – invisible, mysterious,and fatal.
All around the streets where painted with litter and trash as the violence raged from the side walk. The sewage had spilled over the gutters and boiled out much like the homeless and drunks did to the metropolis. A bottle thrown and along the sides the streets no longer painted with spray but with blood of those the city wished to through down to the gutters once more.
She was a painted lady, down on her luck. Rain poured on her, cold, and wet. This liquor store will be easy for her to knock off. slowly she opened the door..
Painted donuts. Donuts and bacon. Red, white and sprinkles. I’ve always been dedicated to the flag and all of it’s flavors. Except blue. I fucking hate blue. Blue balls, black and blue.
You always tell me to paint my nails, I don’t know why. Today, just walking, just like every day we walk, it’s great. Mild, sunshine, clear sky. You tell me that I’m beautiful, I’m beginning to believe you. You tell me you don’t think I love you, I do. More than you know. So when I grab your hand, I really want to hold it. When I turn around when I’m leaving I want you to hold me. I love you.
Painted
I believed that harmonies were beautiful colors
every time I painted it sharpened my harmony.
Yesterday I tried to paint you but the colors
weren’t as beautiful as I had thought they were.
Today I look back at the painted yet so empty
canvas and wonder why you didn’t work out..
I had everything planned out and everything was
going great until the paintbrush hit the paper.
It started to paint across the soft paper canvas
But with every stroke it came out distorted and wrong.
The beautiful picture I had beautifully framed in my head
was not as easy to paint as I thought it was going to be.
So I’ve given up on painting pictures and have moved on
to bigger and better things…poetry to open my soul.
Poetry to express my true self and how I feel within
instead of trying to paint something I wish could truly be.
I painted a picture of a cat sleeping on top of the refrigerator. I then went to an art convention and sold the painting for a mere twelve dollars to a man wearing tight blue pants. It was weird.
I helped my sister paint her house. When we started, everything seemed to be going well. That is until we realized that the back of the house had already been painted….yellow! Now, she has the only house on the block that faces the street with a red front, and a yellow back!
The fence needed to be painted but I wasn’t going to do it. It was just too much damn work and I am not into it. Let it chip, flake, and rot. Who cares, I don’t. At least not anymore, ever since that damn man took off for parts unknown.
i had painted another picture that reflected my emotions. my mom has never seen any of them, mostly because she wouldn’t understand. no one understands. sometimes i don’t even
paintings of robust women with porcelain skin. old times when the truth was real and not an abstract figure with no purpose except some existential .
my grandpa always helped me paint. my first painting was of flowers when i was four he did a lot of it but it still hangs in my room. I mostly painted flowers but haven’t painted in about 1 or 2 years, i want to, thought i was good..
The fake smile was craggy and a bit dried out. I couldn’t make heads or tails of it. On a six-foot-tall frog statue, it just didn’t seem to belong…
the painted picture looked as if it was out of this world. It’s bright colors excited me, haunted me, and it even felt as if they knew me. They described moments of my life through color.