Torn, beaten, battered. Totally and utterly worn out. Nothing left in this world but to simply, soldier on. The man stumbled, weary and broken with little to no idea of where he was going. He saw ahead a worn out building.
Luke Buckingham
He looked at his grandmother’s weathered old face with sad eyes. He could see the horror she had faced, the poverty she had endured, in those soft lines decorating her face. He could see her lips, cracked from years of wind storms, with no words to say. But her eyes, he thought, her eyes looked sparkling new
He weathered down the wind a bit, let it bounce along the vane and rooftop. He tipped his hat back to catch some rainbow mist upon his bushy forehead. The excess hairs caught neon rain and stained his battered face a carnival, the merry-go-around lighting around the grassy perimeters. Where the grass grew and fed the smiling cattle, and the horses whinnied in languages of romance. This was a storm to be dealt with. He had dealt with it too much for.
Belinda Roddie
LIke the rocks on the edge of the cliff by the sea, my mind is weathered today. It has pushed and fought and stood the test of time. I stand still, alone, and keep on waiting here. But I am slowly falling into the sea. Will my sailor come home before I am completely gone? Will it come true?
S. Trujillo
I think I weathered that storm pretty well. =] In the end, I did come out a stronger person, and I guess that’s what really matters. Where I end after all this.
Ah, but it still hurts a little that you don’t care nearly as much as I would want you to.
I looked into his eyes, set into a weathered face. I saw much wisdom, gained from hard experience. His cracked, broken hands grasped the camera, and he put the lens to the sky. It was a strange sight – this old wreck of a man capturing the blazing beauty of the sunset, not sure if he’d live to see the sun rise again.
smiles smiled past and forgone
conclusion regret never met a better failure
1999; time passes like ice melting
too slowly and at once gone
face weathered scarred from smiles and sun
never gotten
never gone
always wondering
wonderful one.
Matty M.
I pulled up to my old house and when I saw the house I grew up in, I saw the mini-van I grew up riding in, rusty and broken down. I began questioning how and why this one time so important piece of my childhood was looking now like my mother: tired and worn out. Flas
Danielle
she looked out the window and saw her reflection. she didn’t remember why she was there, and felt nothing. isn’t this what she had wanted?
abigail
The weathered old house lay abandoned near the shore. It must have once been a very valuable property, and the land would still be worth plenty. But there was little hope for the house itself.
A pity. It was surely filled with a hundred years of history, now all forgotten.
The skin on his hand from making the rope dance looked as if the grand canyon map could be read there. A life line of hard cracks in firm earth. She smiled knowing he was the hero she’d been waiting for. If there was one.
nickneo
we have weathered the storm and now another one is coming.
that’s winter in New England and that is life.
Robin
I am. Right now. An epiphany. This day meant something, after many of them wasted, thrown overboard because I did not use them, failed to use them. Life runs in cycles, life runs from good to bad to perfect to disastrous.
The weathered paint on the old barn mirrored the farmer’s craggy face. The peeling beams had seen chickens, cows and horses come and go over the years. And the sun-toughened hand had been the one to bring them in and usher them out, over and over until he was finally the one being ushered out to retirement.
She woke with a start. His hands stroked her forehead, gently brushing the strands of hair away from her face.
“Another nightmare?” he whispered.
She did not answer his question, merely looked him in the eye and said, “Tell me a story – one that will make me forget.”
And so he did. Slowly, at first, painting a place with his lips, then quicker as the world grew. With wise and weathered words, he chased away the shadows and vanquished the demons.
The weathered shack stood in the back of the clearing. She had been walking so long through the woods she could not believe her eyes. Smoke from the chimney made her heart sing! She had been lost for so long that this sign of life almost made her weep
tired and broken from all of this fighting, from all of the questions and feeling like things aren’t getting better. I’m weathered and beaten by the thought that we aren’t perfect for each other or that we might not ever be the happy I want to be.
Heather
old looking white paint sliveredfacees wrinkled pale wrinkled tanned suede leather wood chair birdhouse. The old woman’s face we weathered form years of hard work and exposure to the sun. There was an old weathered rocking chair on her porch that looked as if it was her favorite resting place after a hard days work in the garden, fields. The old dog under the weathered porch looked as though he was long past his puppy days. He had a satisfied, comfortable look that said ‘don’t bother me, I resting’. The old woman walked up to the porch, sat down her in rocker and pointed to another chair for me to sit. She offered me a drink of water from an old, crazed pitcher that sat on a little weathered table next to her.
Beverly R.
his shrunken, weathered face tilted towards her. there was but a little sight left in his bleary eyes. still, the power of his gaze left her rooted to the spot.
when he laughed, his throat creaked like an ancient door.
her temper flared up. “I didn’t come here to be mocked,” she said, and added, in the best attempt at deference she could make, “sir.”
the Captain puffed out his chest like a wrathful bird. “He wasn’t mocking you,” he spat, “and you should know better than to speak to the Elder that way.”
she took a chance on the Elder’s all-but-finished sight to show the good Captain a rude gesture. he spluttered.
“he looks so sad though” marta whispered.
“i think that he is just lost in thought” claire responded.
“ugh no he is thinking about where he got all those sweet wrinkles” marissa said while slurping on a blue ice pop.
claire and marta looked at their friend. marissa grinned and licked claire’s cheek with her now-blue tounge and ran off.
Mani
Astor turned the weathered old hand over in his own, his smile for once less zany and more placid. Tobias closed his eyes and burrowed himself further under his covers, but left the weathered old hand in his best friend’s.
“Y’know, we two’ve been through a lot, but lookin, you’d think only you knew it.”
“I think that was a creative way of telling me that I look old,” Tobias murmured, already half asleep. “In which case, fuck you.”
The rain was falling softly onto the lake as she walked with her head tucked under a navy umbrella. sirens could be heard in the distance as she walked. One foot in front of the other she thought to herself. A word floated into her head, ‘weathered’. That was a good description for how she was feeling at the moment. The weather outside seemed to mimic her inner turmoil.
Julia
A weathered face speaks volumes
weathering the storm of emotion brings awareness
a weathering patina evokes age and essence
his face was lines by the years of hard work he had endured, the beatings he had taken by both his master’s hand and by the harsh, broiling climate. His eyes squinted out from behind leathery lids and deep crevasses of wrinkles which made a beautiful pattern across his forehead, radiated out from his eyes, and made the top of his nose scrunch as if in confusion. his dark skin spelled out his entire life, all of the things he had endured, lost and loved. his skin had become so thick and tough over the years that he could barely even feel the beads of sweat which streaked down his temples, ran along the hard line of his jaw, and dripped from his pointed chin.
His hands shared the same rough quality, as their quick, muscled fingers untangled what seemed like miles of rope which lay in a stinking pile on the worn deck. The pads of his thumbs were hard and shiny from the years of work, and their yellowed color matched that of the calluses which lay at the base of each digit – their depth a measure of his time at the shipyard.
MoMul
I’ve weathered a few storms in my day, this dietetic internship I started in January is not the worst, but some days it feels like. I feel old and out of place, weathered and worn. Bleh, bleh indeed.
Eric
Gloomy,rainy days.Leaving my bed feels unbearable. I pull back the curtains and as I look out my bedroom window the fog hovers over the road and brings back memories, memoies of times and places I yearn to go back to.
the little boy saw all his hopes and dreams be weathered away like the earth getting rid of the old and making room for the new.
brenna
Tired sick, under the weather.gloomy rainy day. The fog brings back memories and makes me yearn for the past. Days like this I just want to stay in bed, locked in my room, isolated.
allison castillo
my spirit slowly weathered away as the game dragged on, and i could feel a slow sense of defeat rising up in my body as we lost point after point in what seemed like never ending, yet tragic volleys. it was a pain i had become used to after such a long while of facing complete loss.
tired old man walks down the wintered street in the middle of a dried out prairie town with a history hidden in the bookcases, sidewalks, lamp posts the space between the deserted houses with the smog lined fences keeping cars and trucks lined away from the feet of the doorstep
Jenny Antony
He had weathered the storm, and it was time to face the damage. As he stepped out of the house, he immediately felt like Dorthy flying through the tornado, except he didn’t land in Oz.
The lightning strikes me down. The tongue sparks with electricity. The heat steams over off of my body like water.
Miki
It is said that man is born into trouble and the sparks fly upwards. Similarly, in England boy is born into puddles and will splish splosh quite happily for upwards of half an hour if provided with suitable wellies. Weather defines.
i’ve weathered many a storm—the odd part? i was the cause of most storms i’ve weathered. even odder? though i created the storms they seemed to have far surpassed the creative intent. from showers to hurricanes in a single swipe. the result?—disaster—the remedy?—clean up.
It lay wrinkled up, brown and gray from time and age. It knew nothing of happiness or youth, all it knew was the shriveled lump of a life it led. The constant wind and rain had taken its toll and it would never again be beautiful, happy or young.
Wake up, wake up, don’t be complacent! Get weathered, shaped, marbled into strange patterns. Don’t ever stay the same because we are creatures of constant flux. You can never jump in the same river twice and really you should have no desire to do so. Stay vigilant or decay, darlings.
The weathered leather sat on the front bench, forgotten. It had been there for a very long time. The old man who the leather gloves belonged to no longer worked therefore there was no need for them anymore. They sat on the bench and baked in the sun a memory of a younger man in younger days. In better times.
I spent a good portion of my year thinking I couldn’t handle it anymore. But that was all antics. I wasn’t weathered, I simply gave up. Good times!
Torn, beaten, battered. Totally and utterly worn out. Nothing left in this world but to simply, soldier on. The man stumbled, weary and broken with little to no idea of where he was going. He saw ahead a worn out building.
He looked at his grandmother’s weathered old face with sad eyes. He could see the horror she had faced, the poverty she had endured, in those soft lines decorating her face. He could see her lips, cracked from years of wind storms, with no words to say. But her eyes, he thought, her eyes looked sparkling new
He weathered down the wind a bit, let it bounce along the vane and rooftop. He tipped his hat back to catch some rainbow mist upon his bushy forehead. The excess hairs caught neon rain and stained his battered face a carnival, the merry-go-around lighting around the grassy perimeters. Where the grass grew and fed the smiling cattle, and the horses whinnied in languages of romance. This was a storm to be dealt with. He had dealt with it too much for.
LIke the rocks on the edge of the cliff by the sea, my mind is weathered today. It has pushed and fought and stood the test of time. I stand still, alone, and keep on waiting here. But I am slowly falling into the sea. Will my sailor come home before I am completely gone? Will it come true?
I think I weathered that storm pretty well. =] In the end, I did come out a stronger person, and I guess that’s what really matters. Where I end after all this.
Ah, but it still hurts a little that you don’t care nearly as much as I would want you to.
I looked into his eyes, set into a weathered face. I saw much wisdom, gained from hard experience. His cracked, broken hands grasped the camera, and he put the lens to the sky. It was a strange sight – this old wreck of a man capturing the blazing beauty of the sunset, not sure if he’d live to see the sun rise again.
smiles smiled past and forgone
conclusion regret never met a better failure
1999; time passes like ice melting
too slowly and at once gone
face weathered scarred from smiles and sun
never gotten
never gone
always wondering
wonderful one.
I pulled up to my old house and when I saw the house I grew up in, I saw the mini-van I grew up riding in, rusty and broken down. I began questioning how and why this one time so important piece of my childhood was looking now like my mother: tired and worn out. Flas
she looked out the window and saw her reflection. she didn’t remember why she was there, and felt nothing. isn’t this what she had wanted?
The weathered old house lay abandoned near the shore. It must have once been a very valuable property, and the land would still be worth plenty. But there was little hope for the house itself.
A pity. It was surely filled with a hundred years of history, now all forgotten.
The skin on his hand from making the rope dance looked as if the grand canyon map could be read there. A life line of hard cracks in firm earth. She smiled knowing he was the hero she’d been waiting for. If there was one.
we have weathered the storm and now another one is coming.
that’s winter in New England and that is life.
I am. Right now. An epiphany. This day meant something, after many of them wasted, thrown overboard because I did not use them, failed to use them. Life runs in cycles, life runs from good to bad to perfect to disastrous.
The weathered paint on the old barn mirrored the farmer’s craggy face. The peeling beams had seen chickens, cows and horses come and go over the years. And the sun-toughened hand had been the one to bring them in and usher them out, over and over until he was finally the one being ushered out to retirement.
She woke with a start. His hands stroked her forehead, gently brushing the strands of hair away from her face.
“Another nightmare?” he whispered.
She did not answer his question, merely looked him in the eye and said, “Tell me a story – one that will make me forget.”
And so he did. Slowly, at first, painting a place with his lips, then quicker as the world grew. With wise and weathered words, he chased away the shadows and vanquished the demons.
The weathered shack stood in the back of the clearing. She had been walking so long through the woods she could not believe her eyes. Smoke from the chimney made her heart sing! She had been lost for so long that this sign of life almost made her weep
tired and broken from all of this fighting, from all of the questions and feeling like things aren’t getting better. I’m weathered and beaten by the thought that we aren’t perfect for each other or that we might not ever be the happy I want to be.
old looking white paint sliveredfacees wrinkled pale wrinkled tanned suede leather wood chair birdhouse. The old woman’s face we weathered form years of hard work and exposure to the sun. There was an old weathered rocking chair on her porch that looked as if it was her favorite resting place after a hard days work in the garden, fields. The old dog under the weathered porch looked as though he was long past his puppy days. He had a satisfied, comfortable look that said ‘don’t bother me, I resting’. The old woman walked up to the porch, sat down her in rocker and pointed to another chair for me to sit. She offered me a drink of water from an old, crazed pitcher that sat on a little weathered table next to her.
his shrunken, weathered face tilted towards her. there was but a little sight left in his bleary eyes. still, the power of his gaze left her rooted to the spot.
when he laughed, his throat creaked like an ancient door.
her temper flared up. “I didn’t come here to be mocked,” she said, and added, in the best attempt at deference she could make, “sir.”
the Captain puffed out his chest like a wrathful bird. “He wasn’t mocking you,” he spat, “and you should know better than to speak to the Elder that way.”
she took a chance on the Elder’s all-but-finished sight to show the good Captain a rude gesture. he spluttered.
“he looks so sad though” marta whispered.
“i think that he is just lost in thought” claire responded.
“ugh no he is thinking about where he got all those sweet wrinkles” marissa said while slurping on a blue ice pop.
claire and marta looked at their friend. marissa grinned and licked claire’s cheek with her now-blue tounge and ran off.
Astor turned the weathered old hand over in his own, his smile for once less zany and more placid. Tobias closed his eyes and burrowed himself further under his covers, but left the weathered old hand in his best friend’s.
“Y’know, we two’ve been through a lot, but lookin, you’d think only you knew it.”
“I think that was a creative way of telling me that I look old,” Tobias murmured, already half asleep. “In which case, fuck you.”
Astor chuckled. ” ‘Night, you old fogey.”
The rain was falling softly onto the lake as she walked with her head tucked under a navy umbrella. sirens could be heard in the distance as she walked. One foot in front of the other she thought to herself. A word floated into her head, ‘weathered’. That was a good description for how she was feeling at the moment. The weather outside seemed to mimic her inner turmoil.
A weathered face speaks volumes
weathering the storm of emotion brings awareness
a weathering patina evokes age and essence
his face was lines by the years of hard work he had endured, the beatings he had taken by both his master’s hand and by the harsh, broiling climate. His eyes squinted out from behind leathery lids and deep crevasses of wrinkles which made a beautiful pattern across his forehead, radiated out from his eyes, and made the top of his nose scrunch as if in confusion. his dark skin spelled out his entire life, all of the things he had endured, lost and loved. his skin had become so thick and tough over the years that he could barely even feel the beads of sweat which streaked down his temples, ran along the hard line of his jaw, and dripped from his pointed chin.
His hands shared the same rough quality, as their quick, muscled fingers untangled what seemed like miles of rope which lay in a stinking pile on the worn deck. The pads of his thumbs were hard and shiny from the years of work, and their yellowed color matched that of the calluses which lay at the base of each digit – their depth a measure of his time at the shipyard.
I’ve weathered a few storms in my day, this dietetic internship I started in January is not the worst, but some days it feels like. I feel old and out of place, weathered and worn. Bleh, bleh indeed.
Gloomy,rainy days.Leaving my bed feels unbearable. I pull back the curtains and as I look out my bedroom window the fog hovers over the road and brings back memories, memoies of times and places I yearn to go back to.
the little boy saw all his hopes and dreams be weathered away like the earth getting rid of the old and making room for the new.
Tired sick, under the weather.gloomy rainy day. The fog brings back memories and makes me yearn for the past. Days like this I just want to stay in bed, locked in my room, isolated.
my spirit slowly weathered away as the game dragged on, and i could feel a slow sense of defeat rising up in my body as we lost point after point in what seemed like never ending, yet tragic volleys. it was a pain i had become used to after such a long while of facing complete loss.
tired old man walks down the wintered street in the middle of a dried out prairie town with a history hidden in the bookcases, sidewalks, lamp posts the space between the deserted houses with the smog lined fences keeping cars and trucks lined away from the feet of the doorstep
He had weathered the storm, and it was time to face the damage. As he stepped out of the house, he immediately felt like Dorthy flying through the tornado, except he didn’t land in Oz.
The lightning strikes me down. The tongue sparks with electricity. The heat steams over off of my body like water.
It is said that man is born into trouble and the sparks fly upwards. Similarly, in England boy is born into puddles and will splish splosh quite happily for upwards of half an hour if provided with suitable wellies. Weather defines.
i’ve weathered many a storm—the odd part? i was the cause of most storms i’ve weathered. even odder? though i created the storms they seemed to have far surpassed the creative intent. from showers to hurricanes in a single swipe. the result?—disaster—the remedy?—clean up.
oh boy was i weathered
It lay wrinkled up, brown and gray from time and age. It knew nothing of happiness or youth, all it knew was the shriveled lump of a life it led. The constant wind and rain had taken its toll and it would never again be beautiful, happy or young.
Wake up, wake up, don’t be complacent! Get weathered, shaped, marbled into strange patterns. Don’t ever stay the same because we are creatures of constant flux. You can never jump in the same river twice and really you should have no desire to do so. Stay vigilant or decay, darlings.
it’s possible for people to become weathered.
we become heated with passion but we break with the cold
The weathered leather sat on the front bench, forgotten. It had been there for a very long time. The old man who the leather gloves belonged to no longer worked therefore there was no need for them anymore. They sat on the bench and baked in the sun a memory of a younger man in younger days. In better times.