what do i feel? what is the texture of my mind? is it rough. is it smoothe. doe sit have little bumps around the edges? what makes a mind rough- is it lieing? maybe the hurting of one’s sould makes them rough, makes the calloused and hard.
Patrick Hart
the texture of her skin was like old leather, wrinkled but smooth, cold to the touch. I looked down at her, tears in my eyes, at the only woman who never let me down.
“I love you, Grandma . . .” I whispered, fighting
Jeremy Green
texture is what you feel, a very primal sense. it can communicate so much but be very non-specific to memories you might have. something that feels a certain way may elicit very different memories person to person.
Daniel
i like a smooth texture on a penis, it makes for a good entry, it should be good and lubed up tho, if not then u should already be wet, sometimes it is hard to do
jennirosecrowder
i can still feel
the texture of your fingertips
the warm heat of your breath,
your voice vibrating in my ear
i’ll keep with me til death.
the way your held me by the wrist
the way you stare at me
the way i’d tremble in your gaze
and how i felt so free.
“you don’t want me to go”, you said
“it’s fine” i then replied,
and as i walked you to the door
i wished i had not lied.
d*
It feels so soft.. but then, if you shift it slightly, it’s now rough. Unpleasant. Fabric is so fickle. The fabric of life.
Kymba
The feel of brail
Kari
Blocks, spaces, lines, herring-bone. Blue, deep, checkered — but small. Yes, the white is there, creates some sort of pattern, some idea of layering. But I don’t know that it’s really necessary.
KW
there was a wall in the house, different from the rest of them. It’s texture, rough and foreign. I had a hard time deciding why it was so different. I would touch it every morning when I got out of bed. I never realized why it was this way until a tornado hit and knocked the wall down. Behind it was my ecstasy.
Anonymous
sometimes i hate different textures. like felt, that’s the worst. gives me goosebumbs.
kb
rough edges
food
palatte
hunger
the sky
creation as you look around
life
moments
the air that we breathe
love
Sam
feeling so soft and clean i love it so much i feel i see i feeeeel so much. it tells me what will hurt, what will make me feel better. bring me everything, fuzzy, rough, clear and true.
sarah g.
the tactile reaction of our mind, allowing us to communicate our world to our soul.
duncthemac@gmail.com
There is a texture in my mind which scrapes the roof of my mouth. Is there a way to end the recursing melody of Neptune? It melts away at my finger tips. Creating a pigeon in mid flight.
Franco Campese
its cool wavy um curly hair has texutre o so does my laptop keys this is kool thred has texure to
sara
The texture of my ceiling is sort of bumpy. If I stare at it long enough I can see little pictures in it. Hearts, and flowers. I even saw die. once. But I was kinda wierd at the time.
Cyndi
Texture adds flavour and colour and scent to the smooth piece that once was. Texture adds confusion and discomfort and meaning to our lives. Texture is what the lines of old age give us and what we have earned.
Janice Lind
Last night, I experimented with different textures to make shading. The woman that I sketched looked realistic, and I realize the importance of the connection between practice and perfection.
Zubeda
the way something feels. can be soft, hard, feel like sandpaper.
sara loves zoe
the way something feels.
Anonymous
the texture of the blanket was soft and silky, just like her skin. whenever i sleepover i feel as though i have to borrow that soft silky textured blanket. however, her face has a very rough texture. it is not very welcoming and i find
Anonymous
The pear isn’t ripe. It’s sticking between my teeth, forcing them apart the tiniest amount. It’s sweet, and feels like biting into the word “crisp.”
r.a.
like of an orange of of someone’s skin. it can be sexy when you touch and if it’s the one you love it would be sexy no matter what i think well maybe i’m just not shallow i love my baby even if he’s a dirty fob, i love him no matter what
alyssa Nader
The texture was rough and grainy beneath his fingertips, fuzzy like the flim from the poorly developed photos they had taken on their trip to Disneyland, rougher than the sand that they’d walked upon on their fifth date, and much more grainy than the gravel that he felt beneath his knee when he knelt and proposed.
Lost, his fingers curled around the sweater that she had left behind; he placed it slowly into the box with the rest of her items that he was forced to excavate from his apartment.
Meghan Tinkler
the scar had a different quality than the rest of the skin. it was fascinating
Anonymous
feel, touch, a way to perceive what you are looking at. Bumps, velvet, shiny, wooly. I don’t know what else to write about texture, it makes life interesting.
the soft silk of her dress slid over her smooth skin slickly as she slipped out of it and let it skim the tiled floor…
m
legroom, leggings
ill fit the tide
you’re on, ill fit
the robo room, where
fit glides
the globalest warming
imaginable, frisky
recompense, simplicity
in nine colors
roy’s biv and then some,
carousel’s regaling
pipers piping
fantastic twirler tans
begetting
the last stand
at home and in the circling
wagons. variegated
whimsy asks little
to nothing, but
that urchin still
seems a lot, more than
the Christchild offers
on layaway, that nod
to commerce that waylays
the crimson tide
of nadja’s fancy,
the one she
promenaded down
to the river front,
the one she begged
beyond simple mercy,
the one
she gave amply
at offices
far and wide. this speech
was noble,
but the ring
finger tells all:
run into your frozen
fields my children,
the elves are back
in their woods,
the last homely
whistled by your
ears, the nomads
fed you with no
hands, no demands, no
blue gods deeming
the rest
as you flower.
paschal
The texture of the object was smooth yet sharp. As my fingers ran across it’s surface they ached with bitter pain as if I shouldn’t be touching such a thing. But at the same time the object was smooth and drew me near. The object held so much power, a diamond, how many lives it may destroy or make, so much power in such a little thing.
Chris Bustos - cbustos0310@gmail.com
rough soft hard. my tears are smooth. this couch isn’t nearly as comfortable as it seems. text- this is text.
Camille
The texture of my shirt is very smooth, i love to rub my hands up and down my body, feeling the shirt. The texture of my blanket is very rough, my grandma knitted it when traveling across Europe. The texture of my mind is unknown, i have no idea how things become, or how things go, just what is there at the present. I doubt I will ever know.
Jack
I am very sensitive to texture. PErhaps this is why I can’t stand even the thought of someone biting a wooly sock. It’s like fingernails on a black board to me. And then getting knots out of drawstrings. Something about the feel of the cloth against my fingernails. Heebeegeebees.
Leslie Cook
ooohhhhh bumpy, scratchy, tweed and wool. not sure why anyone thought this was a good idea. This bumpy, scratch, tweed and wool. Give me some cashmere and all things squishy and soft.
The texture is the feel. It’s the movement on the page. It’s what makes your heart speed up or your breath catch. It’s the first thing you notice, rough – smooth – soft – hard. Texture is the passion in which art is created.
srhcrly
my art teacher always brought up texture, and i had no idea what the fuck she was talking about. i told her repeatedly, mrs kehoe, i’m an artist of words, not of your silly paints and textures. i simply can’t understand a word that comes out of your mouth. yeah… i didn’t do well in that class. and kehoe and i never really got along in the first place. i didn’t care though because i had my english and although you might notice that there is no capitalization in this story, i promise if it wasn’t 3 in the morning i’d be more impressive.d
davinbell
the texture of the tree that I lean against in the sun is part of how it warms me. The texture of the sand under my feet is part of how it wears me. The texture of my life is part of how it lives me.
Francis Norton
The texture of his skin was fascinating, yet terrifying at the same time; one that was so smooth, yet so torturing to me. I felt as though I needed it, even in a sense that made me feel uncomfortable, almost disgusting and perverse in a sense. It eventually manifested me… self-deprecation kicked in. I needed it, I needed it all, yet I didn’t know how to react.
what do i feel? what is the texture of my mind? is it rough. is it smoothe. doe sit have little bumps around the edges? what makes a mind rough- is it lieing? maybe the hurting of one’s sould makes them rough, makes the calloused and hard.
the texture of her skin was like old leather, wrinkled but smooth, cold to the touch. I looked down at her, tears in my eyes, at the only woman who never let me down.
“I love you, Grandma . . .” I whispered, fighting
texture is what you feel, a very primal sense. it can communicate so much but be very non-specific to memories you might have. something that feels a certain way may elicit very different memories person to person.
i like a smooth texture on a penis, it makes for a good entry, it should be good and lubed up tho, if not then u should already be wet, sometimes it is hard to do
i can still feel
the texture of your fingertips
the warm heat of your breath,
your voice vibrating in my ear
i’ll keep with me til death.
the way your held me by the wrist
the way you stare at me
the way i’d tremble in your gaze
and how i felt so free.
“you don’t want me to go”, you said
“it’s fine” i then replied,
and as i walked you to the door
i wished i had not lied.
It feels so soft.. but then, if you shift it slightly, it’s now rough. Unpleasant. Fabric is so fickle. The fabric of life.
The feel of brail
Blocks, spaces, lines, herring-bone. Blue, deep, checkered — but small. Yes, the white is there, creates some sort of pattern, some idea of layering. But I don’t know that it’s really necessary.
there was a wall in the house, different from the rest of them. It’s texture, rough and foreign. I had a hard time deciding why it was so different. I would touch it every morning when I got out of bed. I never realized why it was this way until a tornado hit and knocked the wall down. Behind it was my ecstasy.
sometimes i hate different textures. like felt, that’s the worst. gives me goosebumbs.
rough edges
food
palatte
hunger
the sky
creation as you look around
life
moments
the air that we breathe
love
feeling so soft and clean i love it so much i feel i see i feeeeel so much. it tells me what will hurt, what will make me feel better. bring me everything, fuzzy, rough, clear and true.
the tactile reaction of our mind, allowing us to communicate our world to our soul.
There is a texture in my mind which scrapes the roof of my mouth. Is there a way to end the recursing melody of Neptune? It melts away at my finger tips. Creating a pigeon in mid flight.
its cool wavy um curly hair has texutre o so does my laptop keys this is kool thred has texure to
The texture of my ceiling is sort of bumpy. If I stare at it long enough I can see little pictures in it. Hearts, and flowers. I even saw die. once. But I was kinda wierd at the time.
Texture adds flavour and colour and scent to the smooth piece that once was. Texture adds confusion and discomfort and meaning to our lives. Texture is what the lines of old age give us and what we have earned.
Last night, I experimented with different textures to make shading. The woman that I sketched looked realistic, and I realize the importance of the connection between practice and perfection.
the way something feels. can be soft, hard, feel like sandpaper.
the way something feels.
the texture of the blanket was soft and silky, just like her skin. whenever i sleepover i feel as though i have to borrow that soft silky textured blanket. however, her face has a very rough texture. it is not very welcoming and i find
The pear isn’t ripe. It’s sticking between my teeth, forcing them apart the tiniest amount. It’s sweet, and feels like biting into the word “crisp.”
like of an orange of of someone’s skin. it can be sexy when you touch and if it’s the one you love it would be sexy no matter what i think well maybe i’m just not shallow i love my baby even if he’s a dirty fob, i love him no matter what
The texture was rough and grainy beneath his fingertips, fuzzy like the flim from the poorly developed photos they had taken on their trip to Disneyland, rougher than the sand that they’d walked upon on their fifth date, and much more grainy than the gravel that he felt beneath his knee when he knelt and proposed.
Lost, his fingers curled around the sweater that she had left behind; he placed it slowly into the box with the rest of her items that he was forced to excavate from his apartment.
the scar had a different quality than the rest of the skin. it was fascinating
feel, touch, a way to perceive what you are looking at. Bumps, velvet, shiny, wooly. I don’t know what else to write about texture, it makes life interesting.
soft, furry, rough,slimy, grimy, smooth, shiny, sparkly, silky, bumpy, sharp, glossy, crunchy, thick
the soft silk of her dress slid over her smooth skin slickly as she slipped out of it and let it skim the tiled floor…
legroom, leggings
ill fit the tide
you’re on, ill fit
the robo room, where
fit glides
the globalest warming
imaginable, frisky
recompense, simplicity
in nine colors
roy’s biv and then some,
carousel’s regaling
pipers piping
fantastic twirler tans
begetting
the last stand
at home and in the circling
wagons. variegated
whimsy asks little
to nothing, but
that urchin still
seems a lot, more than
the Christchild offers
on layaway, that nod
to commerce that waylays
the crimson tide
of nadja’s fancy,
the one she
promenaded down
to the river front,
the one she begged
beyond simple mercy,
the one
she gave amply
at offices
far and wide. this speech
was noble,
but the ring
finger tells all:
run into your frozen
fields my children,
the elves are back
in their woods,
the last homely
whistled by your
ears, the nomads
fed you with no
hands, no demands, no
blue gods deeming
the rest
as you flower.
The texture of the object was smooth yet sharp. As my fingers ran across it’s surface they ached with bitter pain as if I shouldn’t be touching such a thing. But at the same time the object was smooth and drew me near. The object held so much power, a diamond, how many lives it may destroy or make, so much power in such a little thing.
rough soft hard. my tears are smooth. this couch isn’t nearly as comfortable as it seems. text- this is text.
The texture of my shirt is very smooth, i love to rub my hands up and down my body, feeling the shirt. The texture of my blanket is very rough, my grandma knitted it when traveling across Europe. The texture of my mind is unknown, i have no idea how things become, or how things go, just what is there at the present. I doubt I will ever know.
I am very sensitive to texture. PErhaps this is why I can’t stand even the thought of someone biting a wooly sock. It’s like fingernails on a black board to me. And then getting knots out of drawstrings. Something about the feel of the cloth against my fingernails. Heebeegeebees.
ooohhhhh bumpy, scratchy, tweed and wool. not sure why anyone thought this was a good idea. This bumpy, scratch, tweed and wool. Give me some cashmere and all things squishy and soft.
playable differences, smoothing, flexible,habit, hard, rough,
The texture is the feel. It’s the movement on the page. It’s what makes your heart speed up or your breath catch. It’s the first thing you notice, rough – smooth – soft – hard. Texture is the passion in which art is created.
my art teacher always brought up texture, and i had no idea what the fuck she was talking about. i told her repeatedly, mrs kehoe, i’m an artist of words, not of your silly paints and textures. i simply can’t understand a word that comes out of your mouth. yeah… i didn’t do well in that class. and kehoe and i never really got along in the first place. i didn’t care though because i had my english and although you might notice that there is no capitalization in this story, i promise if it wasn’t 3 in the morning i’d be more impressive.d
the texture of the tree that I lean against in the sun is part of how it warms me. The texture of the sand under my feet is part of how it wears me. The texture of my life is part of how it lives me.
The texture of his skin was fascinating, yet terrifying at the same time; one that was so smooth, yet so torturing to me. I felt as though I needed it, even in a sense that made me feel uncomfortable, almost disgusting and perverse in a sense. It eventually manifested me… self-deprecation kicked in. I needed it, I needed it all, yet I didn’t know how to react.
gwsdbsjhdbsdfbldflwefglowiegfup