Painted on his face was the look of despair as he stared at the ashes. His whole life up in a sacrificial flame. but as he went on, the flame spread across his heart and he laughed. At the oppurtunity now brought before him. A New Beginning.
painted.. the veil was painted in white, and as we climbed the mountain i remembered the veil and the color we had painted it. But it had cracked and I knew it would not last much longer. Perhaps this meant something. Maybe my eyes were to open soon and we would understand why we were where we were.
jessica
what i love to do. i wish someone would paint me. painting is so strange. i can never think of anything to paint. i wish i was better at it. painted sounds like…a code word for something. she was painted. she was alive. painted. painted painted. oh. painted. paint me something lovely. paint me on your heart. paint. paint paint paint.
Elizabeth LaCava
painted like a picture. beautifully drawen on paper with colors that would light up the sky. pictures that dont make sense, and pictures that are drawen to perfection. it doesnt matter, as long as the artist is happy with what is painted. painted with paint and painted with feelings that mean more than the paper or paint itself. love the art and love the artwork. painted.
rachel
He painted a picture of a world in which we were perfectly made for each other, we were designed and destined from the beginning, a love that was ancient and magical. He smiled when I said, “I’m sure we’ve been together before, in a different time. We haven’t just met for the first time–we’re meeting once again. We found each other again.” The morning sun was bleeding in through his red construction paper curtains he had put up behind his bed. He kissed me, and said “I feel conent waking up next to you.” He said the loveliest things, all of the things a girl wants to hear to feel truly lovely–things you only read in novels and see in movies.
The way he described the first time he saw me, when I was onstage, seemed as though it could not have been written or planned. He said that it was as if he’d lost all of the organs in his body, like all of his internal life had vanished, and he was just floating above and became nothing but a heart beating out of a chest, a drum played for the first time. And then he said he saw only me, and he took me in and I filled him up. I did that! He saw this sweet, lovely girl, the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen, a girl who was soft and kind, but with a bite. He looked at me like he already knew me, and I believed it. I believed he knew me and saw me and saw nothing but brilliance, like he was an artist looking at his very own painted masterpiece. I was his masterpiece. Talk about bullshit.
I should have known then, that I am not a figmant of his own design, but his genius as an artist made me want to be that for him. I was thrilled and deep in the dream of it–of being a brilliant man’s idyllic, arresting vision of beauty and desire! The only he one ever wanted and needed and HAD to be with and that was that. Nothing else mattered. Yeah, I’ve seen The Notebook one-too-many-times. It’s fucked up, I know.
This artistboy (he cannot be called a man, with the selfishness and unmanly cowardice of his actions) wanted me. And became flustered and impassioned and perplexed in how attain me; to see what he wanted–a challenge–and to get it. Of course this is how I am, too, how I have always been in love. That is, impulsive and passionate and greedy in my lust, and bored after I get what I want too soon. But the reason I didn’t see that he might be just like me, is because I never fell for the others, nor did I think it was possible to, the way I fell for this one. This one, this cliche, this ringer. He had all of the confidence, all of the charm, all of the romance of an actor. He is an actor, and has made his more than comfortable living being only an actor since he was a child. And I am an absolute twit for not understanding that this is a boy who gets what he wants, through his charm and talent and confidence. Of course it was over when I, so unlike myself, so against everything I am, surrendered and let him win me so easily. What kind of a fun game is one that lets you win? If he tried to play again, he wouldn’t get such a succumbing opponent, he’d get me.
For him (and because I had wanted to for sometime before I met him), I left the other boy. The one who truly loved the painting of me that I had been working on for over twenty-two years–the self-portrait, the one the actor didn’t see. I loved him, this other boy, but not in the way that I want to love at twenty-two; not in the holy-shit-I-want-you-so-much-can’t-keep-my-hands-off-you type of way. I loved him in the slow, calm, comfortable and knowing way. The love I’ll need after I shed my beauty, my youth, my compulsive heart. I can’t stand how unfair life is that way. The boy who would have loved me, in all of the ways that a human can selflessly love another, just couldn’t make me shiver and lose control and forget to breathe and be struck by lightning like the actor had the power to do with one touch, one kiss, one look. I wish he could have done that, but there are some mysteries of this world that are too cruel to reason with. The artistboy set my soul on fire, and then with a lick and a pinch put me out.
It ended as fast as it began. His love stopped, suddenly, after one night within our first week of mad-love. One night I fell asleep, in his bed, and woke up to find him asleep on his couch. Nothing had happened in the days or nights before to provoke this, as far as I knew he loved me when I fell asleep, but when I woke to not find him there it was A Midsummer Night’s Dream. I was Hermia and he was my Lysander, under a spell that made him un-want me. There was no Puck here. There was only a boy who got frightened, realizing suddenly and painfully that the consequence of making a girl fall in love with you is that she just might do that. She just might want to love you. And that made him think he needed to take care of her. What he didn’t know or attempt to discover was that she didn’t neen him to take care of her, or say any of those lovely things he’d said. She just wanted him, in that exciting and new and young way of wanting. When wanting is an aching.
He was the one that set up the game, the game of “we are meant to be lovers, let’s play with poetry and words because this a Shakespearean romance.” I know that Shakespeare doesn’t write romances. He writes tragedies. The ones that start as thrilling and exciting and happy as our romance are literally always fucking tragedies. I figured it out when I started to read the subtext. He stopped saying pretty things, other than a few that had to do with my ‘beauty.’
The beauty of my face that he saw and held in his hands and looked into and through was about the only thing he wanted, and once he had it and he had me I suppose the game was over. I wanted to keep playing, but I couldn’t without my partner. He left in the middle of the game, and I wanted to stomp and pout and cry, “Finish it, you coward!” He was apathetic to the pain his ignoring was causing, and after two weeks I gave up. Defeated and broken and alone, sitting at the board hoping he would come back and at least finish me.
He did come back around after those agonizing two weeks of feeling like it was over and not knowing why or how it was possible. He casually explained that he was just a private person and that I worried to much and that he’d take me out at the weekend. Like a dog that knowingly sees his master with his leash and wags ectstatically to go out, I filled up with glee. He was taking me out! He was crazy about me, he’d just been very private and busy and it wasn’t necessary for him to have bothered to ask how my day was or try to see me the past two weeks! Wow, I was an idiot!
So I didn’t hear from him at all that next day, the day we were meant to go out. Or the day after that. And then when I couldn’t take it anymore and sent casual text message of, “What are you up to?” He coolly and casually replied, “Hello! I went out of town for the weekend, up north to my grandparents’ place to breathe.” To breathe. I stopped breathing. My heart sunk. He had just left, left me, his girl, he left and didn’t even say anything about it. He left me waiting, hoping, excited and and confident, and didn’t even have the kindness to say that he was even leaving, or that he was sorry, or that he’d miss me. Of course it was over, it had been over long before this moment. But at this moment I knew it, I didn’t need to hear it, I finally actually felt it in my gut. My love, my true desire, left me without a twitch, a blink, a second thought or regret. It hurt like no wordly pain had felt before, but the pain made me feel mortal again. He had made me feel immortal with his hot-air love, and then with one stab and POP! he turned me mortal. Ouch.
He came back and acted normally, kissed me goodbye after our scene study class and said he’d call me the next day. He called. He started to explain himself with the “I’m just a very keep-to-myself person” bullshit story, and then after said he was concerned at how fast the relationship had started. Yeah, no shit, Sherlock. He said he just ‘felt that something wasn’t right’ in the relationship. Maybe it was that you said I love you to a girl you barely know, and that you somehow fell in love within 24 hours. I get that, but he didn’t say anything at all to fix it, he just went dark on me. He shut me out, if he’d just said that what he thought and felt, we could have hit reset; we could have courted in a way that had room to breathe, a way that allowed us to get to know each other, and let the chips fall where they may. But I didn’t suggest any of this. I just ended it. I said I was done. I was hurt and furious and confused, and I had to end it. I didn’t deserve that treatment I got those last two weeks. It was really fucked up to say all of those love-things, and then out of nowhere to just say, “something didn’t feel right.” We spent maybe 72 perfect hours together, within the course of a week, and then he went dark on me. The analogy for the way he feels, the only plain way I can explain it, is this:
You see a dessert, the most amazing delicious dessert you’ve ever seen, and you have to have it. You get it, and you have a taste. And it is the most amazing dessert you’ve ever had! And instead of savouring it and enjoying it slowly, you just engulf in and consume it all at once–so much, that it makes you sick. And suddenly, it’s like woah, I don’t want that! That’s not what I wanted. But it was and it is, only you ruined it by trying to eat it all at once. Had you just slowly savoured it and saved some for later, it could have been your favorite dessert. And not having it for a some time, you’d still crave it. But now it’s like you never want to see this dessert ever again.
That’s right, I just compared myself to creme brule. Vegan creme brule, he was vegan.
I wish I could say, “I don’t need you, I just want you. Get to know me, I’ll get to know you, let’s do this in a way that is natural and real, and let it happen if it’s meant to happen, and if not…at least it will be for a reason other than ‘it just doesn’t feel right,’ and we won’t be left like we are now, with an unfulfilled lust for each other. The infatuation I have, I wish I could ignore, out of everything he did I wish I didn’t still want him.
I wish I could say all of that to him, only the ‘bite’ part of me says fuck that, if someone wants to be in your life they’ll find a way to be in it, they won’t widdle you out while they convince themselves it won’t work because their expectations for the relationship didn’t meet reality. I was not the masterpiece of his mind’s eye, the perfect creature, sculpture, painting. I’m just a girl. I’m just a heart and a mind and a body and a spirit. I’m not the Mona Lisa. I’m much more interesting that that. I’m me.
Penny Lane
it was painted green , a llight pale green , the windows were brown and she felt still undecided as to wheher she sshould knock or not . still she had come so far that she could not turn back now , not at all she thought . She went to the door – a cream door and she began to yawn that was always a sign that she was nervous , was there a bell – no , not there there was a knocker – big and brass and shaped like a dolphin . Seh rembered the book she had read years ago – Green dolphin Street , wasn’t it set in New Zealand ?
Anna Grogan
I need to paint my room. It has been a year since I put up a deep red on two of the walls and now I need a creme to match it with. I am finding it hard to find the right color. It shows so much about who you are, your room is like a reflection of you soul it is you.
Lauren
painted figures dancing on the walls, who knows where the’ve come from or where they’ll go. stationary but always moving, forever locked in a twirling embrace. walking through a park. reaching up and touching something they’ll never quite achieve. painted on
pachamama61
The waitress ran into the bathroom for a moment and painted her lips with the most ravishing red lipstick she could find in her bulging purse. He had walked into the restaurant that night. After all of those years…he walked in. Thank god she had the lipstick it was the only thing that gave her confidence to step out there and start it all over again with another hello.
Miss B
we painted the ceiling with a replica of starry night by vangogh. it was a meager comfort that we could squeeze out of our so-called talent. when you’re living off a mcdonalds paycheck to pay the bills, paint is enough to make you feel like you’re worth something.
Rk
Is life but painted?
The artist creates us so tainted?
I want to know how to paint. I wish I could paint about my mood or my feelings or just so I could express myself. I wish I could paint to get away from it all. That’d be really nice, for everyone to look at my personal feelings displayed on a canvas and think of how beautiful it is.
amazing colorful stuff, give life to something. details.
anita
The last time I painted, or tried to, I failed. I wish I had artistic ability, honest ability. I’m a cheat, a fraud. The biggest bullshitter you’ll ever meet. You won’t know, because that’s just how good I am. I hate myself for it, that’s one truth that’ll come out of me.
Mansha kakar
i painted a picture of love and you were in it and we were together and it was love and I never want to leave this painting. I painted my face to go out on the town and we will never leave each other. Dont leave me to paint the picture of my life on my own.
We can paint together
Emma
This is my first word…ever. Although i’m not a very good writer, i thought i’d give this a go. Painted is a word i hear a lot in my life. My parents are painters and they’re always painting something. They’ve even painted me a perfect home. I don’t think I would be anywhere without them helping me brush my way through the dark times.
the walls were painted with the simply clarity of my dreams. nothing more and nothing else. it was hard to cover the walls of your crystal castle with the glass ceiling but i would accomplish it somehow. because i can’t go on like this. not with the beaded joint studs taunting me daily, i deserved more anyways.
Alex M
I painted a barber shop once and it was probably one of the most exciting days that I’ve ever had. Mostly because we were helping out someone who needed it and in turn, us painting this building brought him business, gave him a job and revamped his life. The barber shop was in the middle of the ghetto and it was dirty aand run down. We came in, gutted the place out and helped him regain customers and income. Mister Jay, you’re always in our prayers.
Becca White
Two days ago I painted my room. For a really long time, my room was white, orange, and blue: Mets colors. I had A LOT of Mets stuff on my wall including two Fat Heads of Carlos Beltran and Davis Wright. I looked around the other day and said : time to grow up. lol Now my room is all white, and got some other posters coming in the mail.
The painted house stood on the small driveway, beautiful and majestic. It was amazing. It’s doors bright red and windows an amazing shade of pink. No one could ignore the painted house. It was there. It was there for everyone to see and no one to miss. Mr. Jenkin’s had always wanted to live a simple life, but his wife always lived to be outrageous.
Spongebob16
her diamond painted hair glistened in the golden sun as she walked the beach. the gulls laughed merrily as they danced overhead, and beckoned her with their smiles.
red brushes in my hand. anger. anxiety. red and orange cloud my vision. i drown in color unable to see to the blues and greens of the world. anger. i drown.
Megan
the act of being transformed. to create, i wore a painted face- it hid everything. It hid my deepest darkest sorrows it hid happiness it was fake it was oil and color based. It wasn’t me it was you. You painted me. You picasso of sorts. You’re always creating art where it doesn’t exist.
Lauren
I painted the picture so grand. It was like I haven’t even did anything like it before. Stopping for nothing, all day I sat there and did this lion mural. I tried so hard, I hoped it showed. I loved doing this with all my heart, and I hope I never stop for anything, ever again. Nothing will hold me back again.
Kayleee
paintings light color arizona dessert van go flowers lighting museum shows express yourself drawing beautiful reasons grow pretty lovely hope real true facts visual love color purple dessert love inspiration
bonnie
I painted a picture. One with a knife. Digging a story in the skin of the innocent. Scarring a picture, a painting of battle. A war fought against the mirror. The enemy was myself.
Painting…I’ve always wanted to paint. The landscape. Maybe I got the idea from my mom but I think it’s beautiful. I think a picture truly is worth a thousand words. I cannot even begin to describe how inspiring painting is to me.
I wish I could paint. I wish I could paint so I’d be able to say I’ve painted something. Painting is beautiful. Painting speaks words we can’t speak with our mouths.
Olivia
I want to know how to paint. I wish I was a good artist so I could paint about my mood or my feelings or just so I could express myself. I wish I could paint to get away from it all. That’d be really nice, for everyone to look at my personal feelings all over a canvas and think of how beautiful it is.
Lauren
I havnt painted many things in my life but the few things i have painted have been worth the frustration. You see… im not much of an artist … i cant just paint out of nowhere. I have to be in a certain mood… dont we all?
andrea05
i want to be painted with love and understanding and i want everybody to be wonderful and if i could i would i would change everything and i know i’m an asshole but i’d try for everybody who isn’t. i feel like everybody deserves a chance. does everybody feel like this? or am i
nobody
People can be so good at painting faces on. There are days when I’m feeling my lowest, yet my face will be painted with a bright shiny smile. The things it can hide…
Molly
once i painted a picture of a cat. it was blue and purple with sparkles. then i went to work and showed them the picture and gave it to this guy i thought was cute. he loved it! later he asked me out. we went to panted by you and painted plates. he thought it was appropriate. then he took me home.
Katie
I painted my room for the first time in my life. Well the first time I have ever had a chance to paint a room that was mine. I painted it purple. There is black on it and song lyrics painted in black on the walls too. I love it. I will I could paint better.
Jade-Ryan
Having a smile painted each day.
Having to act like something your not.
Just to turn around and find out your not what people expect.
This smile, this painted smile tortures me everyday and it kills me to know.
To know you don’t see it as that.
anonymous
face, hair, hands, nails. the rainbow was all over her body and it dripped from her chin. Painting a treehouse never occurred to her to be such an experience.
There was a yellow house deep in to the woods. No one knows why it was painted so bright amidst the dark and threatening woods. It was like a beacon of hope in the jungle. I felt like it was the optimism i needed before heading into the next stop-life.
ak
painted a picture with thousand words. A thousand dreams, memories, hopes and laughter. Sun shines lke there’s no tomorrow, skies light up beckoning your eyes towards smiling forever! :)
Painted on his face was the look of despair as he stared at the ashes. His whole life up in a sacrificial flame. but as he went on, the flame spread across his heart and he laughed. At the oppurtunity now brought before him. A New Beginning.
painted.. the veil was painted in white, and as we climbed the mountain i remembered the veil and the color we had painted it. But it had cracked and I knew it would not last much longer. Perhaps this meant something. Maybe my eyes were to open soon and we would understand why we were where we were.
what i love to do. i wish someone would paint me. painting is so strange. i can never think of anything to paint. i wish i was better at it. painted sounds like…a code word for something. she was painted. she was alive. painted. painted painted. oh. painted. paint me something lovely. paint me on your heart. paint. paint paint paint.
painted like a picture. beautifully drawen on paper with colors that would light up the sky. pictures that dont make sense, and pictures that are drawen to perfection. it doesnt matter, as long as the artist is happy with what is painted. painted with paint and painted with feelings that mean more than the paper or paint itself. love the art and love the artwork. painted.
He painted a picture of a world in which we were perfectly made for each other, we were designed and destined from the beginning, a love that was ancient and magical. He smiled when I said, “I’m sure we’ve been together before, in a different time. We haven’t just met for the first time–we’re meeting once again. We found each other again.” The morning sun was bleeding in through his red construction paper curtains he had put up behind his bed. He kissed me, and said “I feel conent waking up next to you.” He said the loveliest things, all of the things a girl wants to hear to feel truly lovely–things you only read in novels and see in movies.
The way he described the first time he saw me, when I was onstage, seemed as though it could not have been written or planned. He said that it was as if he’d lost all of the organs in his body, like all of his internal life had vanished, and he was just floating above and became nothing but a heart beating out of a chest, a drum played for the first time. And then he said he saw only me, and he took me in and I filled him up. I did that! He saw this sweet, lovely girl, the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen, a girl who was soft and kind, but with a bite. He looked at me like he already knew me, and I believed it. I believed he knew me and saw me and saw nothing but brilliance, like he was an artist looking at his very own painted masterpiece. I was his masterpiece. Talk about bullshit.
I should have known then, that I am not a figmant of his own design, but his genius as an artist made me want to be that for him. I was thrilled and deep in the dream of it–of being a brilliant man’s idyllic, arresting vision of beauty and desire! The only he one ever wanted and needed and HAD to be with and that was that. Nothing else mattered. Yeah, I’ve seen The Notebook one-too-many-times. It’s fucked up, I know.
This artistboy (he cannot be called a man, with the selfishness and unmanly cowardice of his actions) wanted me. And became flustered and impassioned and perplexed in how attain me; to see what he wanted–a challenge–and to get it. Of course this is how I am, too, how I have always been in love. That is, impulsive and passionate and greedy in my lust, and bored after I get what I want too soon. But the reason I didn’t see that he might be just like me, is because I never fell for the others, nor did I think it was possible to, the way I fell for this one. This one, this cliche, this ringer. He had all of the confidence, all of the charm, all of the romance of an actor. He is an actor, and has made his more than comfortable living being only an actor since he was a child. And I am an absolute twit for not understanding that this is a boy who gets what he wants, through his charm and talent and confidence. Of course it was over when I, so unlike myself, so against everything I am, surrendered and let him win me so easily. What kind of a fun game is one that lets you win? If he tried to play again, he wouldn’t get such a succumbing opponent, he’d get me.
For him (and because I had wanted to for sometime before I met him), I left the other boy. The one who truly loved the painting of me that I had been working on for over twenty-two years–the self-portrait, the one the actor didn’t see. I loved him, this other boy, but not in the way that I want to love at twenty-two; not in the holy-shit-I-want-you-so-much-can’t-keep-my-hands-off-you type of way. I loved him in the slow, calm, comfortable and knowing way. The love I’ll need after I shed my beauty, my youth, my compulsive heart. I can’t stand how unfair life is that way. The boy who would have loved me, in all of the ways that a human can selflessly love another, just couldn’t make me shiver and lose control and forget to breathe and be struck by lightning like the actor had the power to do with one touch, one kiss, one look. I wish he could have done that, but there are some mysteries of this world that are too cruel to reason with. The artistboy set my soul on fire, and then with a lick and a pinch put me out.
It ended as fast as it began. His love stopped, suddenly, after one night within our first week of mad-love. One night I fell asleep, in his bed, and woke up to find him asleep on his couch. Nothing had happened in the days or nights before to provoke this, as far as I knew he loved me when I fell asleep, but when I woke to not find him there it was A Midsummer Night’s Dream. I was Hermia and he was my Lysander, under a spell that made him un-want me. There was no Puck here. There was only a boy who got frightened, realizing suddenly and painfully that the consequence of making a girl fall in love with you is that she just might do that. She just might want to love you. And that made him think he needed to take care of her. What he didn’t know or attempt to discover was that she didn’t neen him to take care of her, or say any of those lovely things he’d said. She just wanted him, in that exciting and new and young way of wanting. When wanting is an aching.
He was the one that set up the game, the game of “we are meant to be lovers, let’s play with poetry and words because this a Shakespearean romance.” I know that Shakespeare doesn’t write romances. He writes tragedies. The ones that start as thrilling and exciting and happy as our romance are literally always fucking tragedies. I figured it out when I started to read the subtext. He stopped saying pretty things, other than a few that had to do with my ‘beauty.’
The beauty of my face that he saw and held in his hands and looked into and through was about the only thing he wanted, and once he had it and he had me I suppose the game was over. I wanted to keep playing, but I couldn’t without my partner. He left in the middle of the game, and I wanted to stomp and pout and cry, “Finish it, you coward!” He was apathetic to the pain his ignoring was causing, and after two weeks I gave up. Defeated and broken and alone, sitting at the board hoping he would come back and at least finish me.
He did come back around after those agonizing two weeks of feeling like it was over and not knowing why or how it was possible. He casually explained that he was just a private person and that I worried to much and that he’d take me out at the weekend. Like a dog that knowingly sees his master with his leash and wags ectstatically to go out, I filled up with glee. He was taking me out! He was crazy about me, he’d just been very private and busy and it wasn’t necessary for him to have bothered to ask how my day was or try to see me the past two weeks! Wow, I was an idiot!
So I didn’t hear from him at all that next day, the day we were meant to go out. Or the day after that. And then when I couldn’t take it anymore and sent casual text message of, “What are you up to?” He coolly and casually replied, “Hello! I went out of town for the weekend, up north to my grandparents’ place to breathe.” To breathe. I stopped breathing. My heart sunk. He had just left, left me, his girl, he left and didn’t even say anything about it. He left me waiting, hoping, excited and and confident, and didn’t even have the kindness to say that he was even leaving, or that he was sorry, or that he’d miss me. Of course it was over, it had been over long before this moment. But at this moment I knew it, I didn’t need to hear it, I finally actually felt it in my gut. My love, my true desire, left me without a twitch, a blink, a second thought or regret. It hurt like no wordly pain had felt before, but the pain made me feel mortal again. He had made me feel immortal with his hot-air love, and then with one stab and POP! he turned me mortal. Ouch.
He came back and acted normally, kissed me goodbye after our scene study class and said he’d call me the next day. He called. He started to explain himself with the “I’m just a very keep-to-myself person” bullshit story, and then after said he was concerned at how fast the relationship had started. Yeah, no shit, Sherlock. He said he just ‘felt that something wasn’t right’ in the relationship. Maybe it was that you said I love you to a girl you barely know, and that you somehow fell in love within 24 hours. I get that, but he didn’t say anything at all to fix it, he just went dark on me. He shut me out, if he’d just said that what he thought and felt, we could have hit reset; we could have courted in a way that had room to breathe, a way that allowed us to get to know each other, and let the chips fall where they may. But I didn’t suggest any of this. I just ended it. I said I was done. I was hurt and furious and confused, and I had to end it. I didn’t deserve that treatment I got those last two weeks. It was really fucked up to say all of those love-things, and then out of nowhere to just say, “something didn’t feel right.” We spent maybe 72 perfect hours together, within the course of a week, and then he went dark on me. The analogy for the way he feels, the only plain way I can explain it, is this:
You see a dessert, the most amazing delicious dessert you’ve ever seen, and you have to have it. You get it, and you have a taste. And it is the most amazing dessert you’ve ever had! And instead of savouring it and enjoying it slowly, you just engulf in and consume it all at once–so much, that it makes you sick. And suddenly, it’s like woah, I don’t want that! That’s not what I wanted. But it was and it is, only you ruined it by trying to eat it all at once. Had you just slowly savoured it and saved some for later, it could have been your favorite dessert. And not having it for a some time, you’d still crave it. But now it’s like you never want to see this dessert ever again.
That’s right, I just compared myself to creme brule. Vegan creme brule, he was vegan.
I wish I could say, “I don’t need you, I just want you. Get to know me, I’ll get to know you, let’s do this in a way that is natural and real, and let it happen if it’s meant to happen, and if not…at least it will be for a reason other than ‘it just doesn’t feel right,’ and we won’t be left like we are now, with an unfulfilled lust for each other. The infatuation I have, I wish I could ignore, out of everything he did I wish I didn’t still want him.
I wish I could say all of that to him, only the ‘bite’ part of me says fuck that, if someone wants to be in your life they’ll find a way to be in it, they won’t widdle you out while they convince themselves it won’t work because their expectations for the relationship didn’t meet reality. I was not the masterpiece of his mind’s eye, the perfect creature, sculpture, painting. I’m just a girl. I’m just a heart and a mind and a body and a spirit. I’m not the Mona Lisa. I’m much more interesting that that. I’m me.
it was painted green , a llight pale green , the windows were brown and she felt still undecided as to wheher she sshould knock or not . still she had come so far that she could not turn back now , not at all she thought . She went to the door – a cream door and she began to yawn that was always a sign that she was nervous , was there a bell – no , not there there was a knocker – big and brass and shaped like a dolphin . Seh rembered the book she had read years ago – Green dolphin Street , wasn’t it set in New Zealand ?
I need to paint my room. It has been a year since I put up a deep red on two of the walls and now I need a creme to match it with. I am finding it hard to find the right color. It shows so much about who you are, your room is like a reflection of you soul it is you.
painted figures dancing on the walls, who knows where the’ve come from or where they’ll go. stationary but always moving, forever locked in a twirling embrace. walking through a park. reaching up and touching something they’ll never quite achieve. painted on
The waitress ran into the bathroom for a moment and painted her lips with the most ravishing red lipstick she could find in her bulging purse. He had walked into the restaurant that night. After all of those years…he walked in. Thank god she had the lipstick it was the only thing that gave her confidence to step out there and start it all over again with another hello.
we painted the ceiling with a replica of starry night by vangogh. it was a meager comfort that we could squeeze out of our so-called talent. when you’re living off a mcdonalds paycheck to pay the bills, paint is enough to make you feel like you’re worth something.
Is life but painted?
The artist creates us so tainted?
I want to know how to paint. I wish I could paint about my mood or my feelings or just so I could express myself. I wish I could paint to get away from it all. That’d be really nice, for everyone to look at my personal feelings displayed on a canvas and think of how beautiful it is.
Colour spewed upon a canvas
In a basement, pipes
Crawling along the ceiling
Dripping moisture.
He sits
Alone
Content.
In love
Not with a girl
but with life
I painted a lot today. :)
amazing colorful stuff, give life to something. details.
The last time I painted, or tried to, I failed. I wish I had artistic ability, honest ability. I’m a cheat, a fraud. The biggest bullshitter you’ll ever meet. You won’t know, because that’s just how good I am. I hate myself for it, that’s one truth that’ll come out of me.
i painted a picture of love and you were in it and we were together and it was love and I never want to leave this painting. I painted my face to go out on the town and we will never leave each other. Dont leave me to paint the picture of my life on my own.
We can paint together
This is my first word…ever. Although i’m not a very good writer, i thought i’d give this a go. Painted is a word i hear a lot in my life. My parents are painters and they’re always painting something. They’ve even painted me a perfect home. I don’t think I would be anywhere without them helping me brush my way through the dark times.
the walls were painted with the simply clarity of my dreams. nothing more and nothing else. it was hard to cover the walls of your crystal castle with the glass ceiling but i would accomplish it somehow. because i can’t go on like this. not with the beaded joint studs taunting me daily, i deserved more anyways.
I painted a barber shop once and it was probably one of the most exciting days that I’ve ever had. Mostly because we were helping out someone who needed it and in turn, us painting this building brought him business, gave him a job and revamped his life. The barber shop was in the middle of the ghetto and it was dirty aand run down. We came in, gutted the place out and helped him regain customers and income. Mister Jay, you’re always in our prayers.
Two days ago I painted my room. For a really long time, my room was white, orange, and blue: Mets colors. I had A LOT of Mets stuff on my wall including two Fat Heads of Carlos Beltran and Davis Wright. I looked around the other day and said : time to grow up. lol Now my room is all white, and got some other posters coming in the mail.
The painted house stood on the small driveway, beautiful and majestic. It was amazing. It’s doors bright red and windows an amazing shade of pink. No one could ignore the painted house. It was there. It was there for everyone to see and no one to miss. Mr. Jenkin’s had always wanted to live a simple life, but his wife always lived to be outrageous.
her diamond painted hair glistened in the golden sun as she walked the beach. the gulls laughed merrily as they danced overhead, and beckoned her with their smiles.
red brushes in my hand. anger. anxiety. red and orange cloud my vision. i drown in color unable to see to the blues and greens of the world. anger. i drown.
the act of being transformed. to create, i wore a painted face- it hid everything. It hid my deepest darkest sorrows it hid happiness it was fake it was oil and color based. It wasn’t me it was you. You painted me. You picasso of sorts. You’re always creating art where it doesn’t exist.
I painted the picture so grand. It was like I haven’t even did anything like it before. Stopping for nothing, all day I sat there and did this lion mural. I tried so hard, I hoped it showed. I loved doing this with all my heart, and I hope I never stop for anything, ever again. Nothing will hold me back again.
paintings light color arizona dessert van go flowers lighting museum shows express yourself drawing beautiful reasons grow pretty lovely hope real true facts visual love color purple dessert love inspiration
I painted a picture. One with a knife. Digging a story in the skin of the innocent. Scarring a picture, a painting of battle. A war fought against the mirror. The enemy was myself.
Painting…I’ve always wanted to paint. The landscape. Maybe I got the idea from my mom but I think it’s beautiful. I think a picture truly is worth a thousand words. I cannot even begin to describe how inspiring painting is to me.
I wish I could paint. I wish I could paint so I’d be able to say I’ve painted something. Painting is beautiful. Painting speaks words we can’t speak with our mouths.
I want to know how to paint. I wish I was a good artist so I could paint about my mood or my feelings or just so I could express myself. I wish I could paint to get away from it all. That’d be really nice, for everyone to look at my personal feelings all over a canvas and think of how beautiful it is.
I havnt painted many things in my life but the few things i have painted have been worth the frustration. You see… im not much of an artist … i cant just paint out of nowhere. I have to be in a certain mood… dont we all?
i want to be painted with love and understanding and i want everybody to be wonderful and if i could i would i would change everything and i know i’m an asshole but i’d try for everybody who isn’t. i feel like everybody deserves a chance. does everybody feel like this? or am i
People can be so good at painting faces on. There are days when I’m feeling my lowest, yet my face will be painted with a bright shiny smile. The things it can hide…
once i painted a picture of a cat. it was blue and purple with sparkles. then i went to work and showed them the picture and gave it to this guy i thought was cute. he loved it! later he asked me out. we went to panted by you and painted plates. he thought it was appropriate. then he took me home.
I painted my room for the first time in my life. Well the first time I have ever had a chance to paint a room that was mine. I painted it purple. There is black on it and song lyrics painted in black on the walls too. I love it. I will I could paint better.
Having a smile painted each day.
Having to act like something your not.
Just to turn around and find out your not what people expect.
This smile, this painted smile tortures me everyday and it kills me to know.
To know you don’t see it as that.
face, hair, hands, nails. the rainbow was all over her body and it dripped from her chin. Painting a treehouse never occurred to her to be such an experience.
There was a yellow house deep in to the woods. No one knows why it was painted so bright amidst the dark and threatening woods. It was like a beacon of hope in the jungle. I felt like it was the optimism i needed before heading into the next stop-life.
painted a picture with thousand words. A thousand dreams, memories, hopes and laughter. Sun shines lke there’s no tomorrow, skies light up beckoning your eyes towards smiling forever! :)