baskets suck. poor people like to make them for money. people never buy the baskets because they like them. they just feel sorry for the poor people weaving them. its kinda sad. but whatever. hey facebook! i don’t wanna donate money for rice. what the fuck. how does that even work.
Jeordie
The stories I’ve been telling are creating the tapestry of my life. I’m using the finest silks and threads to create this beautiful experience for myself and my world. I use my thoughts, my feelings and my words to weave myself a wonderful world.
Weave through the night. Weave on the sidewalk, floating over concrete. Weave in my blanket. Weave through my dreams. Weaving in and out of traffic. Slipping through the stream. Waiting for this moment. Your fingers weaved through mine.
Lisbeth
Sherlock ducked behind a newspaper bin. Had he been seen? A moment passed, two, then a shot rang out in his direction. The pedestrians surrounding him panicked and fled, ducking indoors or into their cars, or just running down the street. Sherlock joined the en-masse fleeing, but ducked into an alley before any stray shots caused casualties to those still on the main street.
Rapid footsteps and another gunshot told him that his quarry (now his assailant) wasn’t far behind. Sherlock did his best to dodge and weave, though it probably would not pose a challenge to the trained sniper. Finally, a wall which Sherlock was only just tall enough to grab onto (the sniper was a head shorter) presented itself in a dead end, and Sherlock took the opportunity quickly, struggling and kicking his way up and over the edge to drop and roll on the opposite side.
The fugitive detective ducked into a building to catch his breath. He would have change his appearance again, now this target had seen him. If only John knew the lengths to which Sherlock was going for his sake.
I weave the tattered peaces of my life together. I find peace in it’s broken and torn edges. The heart is the same. All the same.
Samantha Mayfield
string needle pelican pink colours and cheese with trees and sauce apple seeds with honey dipped cheerios and life and life and life abundant and abundance of an abundance of life of flora of fauna weaving together in one delicate spiral a circle of existence and harmony an ever flowing tidal a wave of emotion and desire and
life
Sam M
weave reminds me of braids and fishtails. i like fishtails but only on some people. they especially look good on people with chalked hair. i wish i had blonde hair so i could do that and take a picture. i love taking picture of beachy looks like that. i wish i could do it. and put it on pinterest.
GeorgiaLynn
I don’t really care for weave. It’s unnatural and weird. Many girls at my school wear weave. Some people it looks good on. Others not so much. I just wish I could tell them that without them thinking I’m racist or anything. I wish I had a weave.
Schuyler
Weaves are a horrible invention that people from the ghetto complain about constantly. they are called weaves because you basket weave them into your scalp and it becomes part of your hair, giving you the appearance of long and usually straight hair. Whatever you do. don’t get a weave.
Hannah
i weave to my friend, “hi friend”
Lestat
i used to weve you a blanket
from my heart strings
i changed it’s color
texture
everything just so it would look amazing
i wove it to keep you from the cold
to help you sleep at night
even after you left me
i let you keep it
you still use it though
to keep HER warm
to help HER sleep at night
right?
and i’m just here
with a heart that has a string dangling
afraid for anyone to even touch it
because i am afraid the more the person pulls
i won’t have any string to weave myself
back together
jasmin alonso
Weaving. It’s making. It’s creating. Creating warmth, comfort, love, embrace. It’s also what black ladies wear in their hair. Apparently, it’s a lot of work. I don’t buy it.
Joe L.
I just don’t understand the world, the way it interlocks, even when you wish it’d leave you alone. I don’t want every thing to weave together, I want to be absolutly alone in myself. Is that too much to ask?
Bonnie St. Guess
When I weave words together, I make a sentence. When I weave sentences together, I create a paragraph. When I weave paragraphs together, I make a story. When I weave stories together, I make history.
Brianna
Weave a tapestry of dreams. Of intertwined hands, bodies, minds. Love.
weaving what i love and what i’m obliged to do into one tapestry is called a way of life, i suppose. then what a variety we have of such tapestries!
kaorita
The weave in the rug was an intricate , delicate weave.The colors bright and beautiful, bold colors. Something she’d never seen before. The fabric, a silk like nothing she ever felt before.
Sheila Good
something that a black person usually wears, almost like a wig, dont really know why they wear it but they do! dont know why its just black people (mostly) but it is. interesting subject the weave is, i wonder what its like to have one on your head? maybe i will try it sometime, who knows!
aoife
She was used to it-weaving under the grapevine, day after day. It was relaxing, it was her life… She could remember weaving next to her grandma, who taught her to mix colours and threads….
mariag
I went to the park and i weaved a basket, i don’t think that i knew what i was doing when i was weaving it. But later it turned out i was trying to weave together back the pieces of my life. I am the girl who weaved the pieces of her life together
Anna Smith
Together. Connecting and holding in place. History. Familiarity. Useful.
Anna
I saw a hand-crafted rug on Pin It the other day, using cut pieces of t-shirts as the weave material. It was a very clever idea and looked something like a flokati rug, although the woman who made it dyed the white t-shirts an ugly grey color that I couldn’t see anyone wanting in their home.
The traffic flew by me. I was on my bike. I began to weave in and out of cars when the lights were red. All of a sudden, out of nowhere a bird popped out in front of me. Bang!
Greg
I weave a story of hope, of love, of optimism. God weaves my path, my life. We all weave our future. Who knows where we will go, what pattern we will weave. Everyone’s colors are different. Everyone has different threads, different pictures. What’s yours?
Megan
Weave in and out, up and down, through the corners and between the cracks. Weave your fingers through my hair, weave your hands between mine. Weave into my life like twine.
Elena
the thing that black girls put in their hair to make themselves feel pretty. a beautiful design made in the gorgeous blah blah blah that i cant remember at the moment what it is called. and now i am laughing hystericaly in my brain cause i am so racist. like a cat.
Charlieze
weave. interlacing thoughts, intertwined body parts, two spirits cavorting through the silent air. weave us together.
Sarah, as, the day went by, weaved a large scarf.
she then presented it to her mother who wore it every day with pride.
Lilly
weave – past tense wove: past participle woven – verb : to make by crossing strands in a pattern: to weave clothes. I did not know what it meant, I do now.
Linda
bitch hold my weave,” britney said once she found out her boyfriend was cheating on her. they had been dating for 5 months and she was devestated, and angry. she was gonna kick some ass!
olivia velarde
i weaved the three strands of my daughter’s hair in my fingers, braiding the curly hair down her back. We both loved Sunday mornings. It was this time when, after a long week of appointments, work, and school, we can relax and watch movies and spend some time together.
Brittany Brown
I weave my hands through yours. Our fingers interlace and the first touch sparks tingles through my bones, down my veins, into my heart. My heart pounds heavier and heavier against the door of my chest as if it were about to explode.
Anna
I sat at my loom, with only one candle burning brightly beside me, casting flickering shadows on the walls. Why, I asked myself. Why me? Why do I have to be the Chosen One?
Weave and weave, each hair wound around another. The glossiness, the shine of her locks was bright enough to rival a burning star.
Cass
As the car weaves from one side of the small-town street to the other, we watch in horror. We’re afraid of what the drunk driver will do. Will he kill himself, someone else? Get hit by a train?
Margaret
entangled in a woven net the girl struggled. The half fish woman had been stuck since sunset and was only getting further woven inside the net.
Beth
your soul into another, the dark rhythmic cascade of love. Spoken in hushed whispers from heart to heart, a language we never fully grasp. It’s always been a struggle.
John
The tiny glass beads shimmered in the high sunlight
the tall grasses bent and swayed
the smell of dirt, wind, and oaks filled the air
My sister got a loom for christmas. she started to weave this lovely placemat and gave up soon after. I kind of wish she hadn’t, because it was going to be really pretty. She promised to weave me a guitar strap, but she never did…another broken promise.
Joanie
Weaving strands of string together to form fabricated lies that happen, not out of choice but out of attention. To see what happens, to see what will be made of them. There is nothing new left to discover until the weaves have been pulled and the strings are all separated with nothing left but piles of uselessness.
baskets suck. poor people like to make them for money. people never buy the baskets because they like them. they just feel sorry for the poor people weaving them. its kinda sad. but whatever. hey facebook! i don’t wanna donate money for rice. what the fuck. how does that even work.
The stories I’ve been telling are creating the tapestry of my life. I’m using the finest silks and threads to create this beautiful experience for myself and my world. I use my thoughts, my feelings and my words to weave myself a wonderful world.
Weave through the night. Weave on the sidewalk, floating over concrete. Weave in my blanket. Weave through my dreams. Weaving in and out of traffic. Slipping through the stream. Waiting for this moment. Your fingers weaved through mine.
Sherlock ducked behind a newspaper bin. Had he been seen? A moment passed, two, then a shot rang out in his direction. The pedestrians surrounding him panicked and fled, ducking indoors or into their cars, or just running down the street. Sherlock joined the en-masse fleeing, but ducked into an alley before any stray shots caused casualties to those still on the main street.
Rapid footsteps and another gunshot told him that his quarry (now his assailant) wasn’t far behind. Sherlock did his best to dodge and weave, though it probably would not pose a challenge to the trained sniper. Finally, a wall which Sherlock was only just tall enough to grab onto (the sniper was a head shorter) presented itself in a dead end, and Sherlock took the opportunity quickly, struggling and kicking his way up and over the edge to drop and roll on the opposite side.
The fugitive detective ducked into a building to catch his breath. He would have change his appearance again, now this target had seen him. If only John knew the lengths to which Sherlock was going for his sake.
I weave the tattered peaces of my life together. I find peace in it’s broken and torn edges. The heart is the same. All the same.
string needle pelican pink colours and cheese with trees and sauce apple seeds with honey dipped cheerios and life and life and life abundant and abundance of an abundance of life of flora of fauna weaving together in one delicate spiral a circle of existence and harmony an ever flowing tidal a wave of emotion and desire and
life
weave reminds me of braids and fishtails. i like fishtails but only on some people. they especially look good on people with chalked hair. i wish i had blonde hair so i could do that and take a picture. i love taking picture of beachy looks like that. i wish i could do it. and put it on pinterest.
I don’t really care for weave. It’s unnatural and weird. Many girls at my school wear weave. Some people it looks good on. Others not so much. I just wish I could tell them that without them thinking I’m racist or anything. I wish I had a weave.
Weaves are a horrible invention that people from the ghetto complain about constantly. they are called weaves because you basket weave them into your scalp and it becomes part of your hair, giving you the appearance of long and usually straight hair. Whatever you do. don’t get a weave.
i weave to my friend, “hi friend”
i used to weve you a blanket
from my heart strings
i changed it’s color
texture
everything just so it would look amazing
i wove it to keep you from the cold
to help you sleep at night
even after you left me
i let you keep it
you still use it though
to keep HER warm
to help HER sleep at night
right?
and i’m just here
with a heart that has a string dangling
afraid for anyone to even touch it
because i am afraid the more the person pulls
i won’t have any string to weave myself
back together
Weaving. It’s making. It’s creating. Creating warmth, comfort, love, embrace. It’s also what black ladies wear in their hair. Apparently, it’s a lot of work. I don’t buy it.
I just don’t understand the world, the way it interlocks, even when you wish it’d leave you alone. I don’t want every thing to weave together, I want to be absolutly alone in myself. Is that too much to ask?
When I weave words together, I make a sentence. When I weave sentences together, I create a paragraph. When I weave paragraphs together, I make a story. When I weave stories together, I make history.
Weave a tapestry of dreams. Of intertwined hands, bodies, minds. Love.
weaving what i love and what i’m obliged to do into one tapestry is called a way of life, i suppose. then what a variety we have of such tapestries!
The weave in the rug was an intricate , delicate weave.The colors bright and beautiful, bold colors. Something she’d never seen before. The fabric, a silk like nothing she ever felt before.
something that a black person usually wears, almost like a wig, dont really know why they wear it but they do! dont know why its just black people (mostly) but it is. interesting subject the weave is, i wonder what its like to have one on your head? maybe i will try it sometime, who knows!
She was used to it-weaving under the grapevine, day after day. It was relaxing, it was her life… She could remember weaving next to her grandma, who taught her to mix colours and threads….
I went to the park and i weaved a basket, i don’t think that i knew what i was doing when i was weaving it. But later it turned out i was trying to weave together back the pieces of my life. I am the girl who weaved the pieces of her life together
Together. Connecting and holding in place. History. Familiarity. Useful.
I saw a hand-crafted rug on Pin It the other day, using cut pieces of t-shirts as the weave material. It was a very clever idea and looked something like a flokati rug, although the woman who made it dyed the white t-shirts an ugly grey color that I couldn’t see anyone wanting in their home.
The traffic flew by me. I was on my bike. I began to weave in and out of cars when the lights were red. All of a sudden, out of nowhere a bird popped out in front of me. Bang!
I weave a story of hope, of love, of optimism. God weaves my path, my life. We all weave our future. Who knows where we will go, what pattern we will weave. Everyone’s colors are different. Everyone has different threads, different pictures. What’s yours?
Weave in and out, up and down, through the corners and between the cracks. Weave your fingers through my hair, weave your hands between mine. Weave into my life like twine.
the thing that black girls put in their hair to make themselves feel pretty. a beautiful design made in the gorgeous blah blah blah that i cant remember at the moment what it is called. and now i am laughing hystericaly in my brain cause i am so racist. like a cat.
weave. interlacing thoughts, intertwined body parts, two spirits cavorting through the silent air. weave us together.
Sarah, as, the day went by, weaved a large scarf.
she then presented it to her mother who wore it every day with pride.
weave – past tense wove: past participle woven – verb : to make by crossing strands in a pattern: to weave clothes. I did not know what it meant, I do now.
bitch hold my weave,” britney said once she found out her boyfriend was cheating on her. they had been dating for 5 months and she was devestated, and angry. she was gonna kick some ass!
i weaved the three strands of my daughter’s hair in my fingers, braiding the curly hair down her back. We both loved Sunday mornings. It was this time when, after a long week of appointments, work, and school, we can relax and watch movies and spend some time together.
I weave my hands through yours. Our fingers interlace and the first touch sparks tingles through my bones, down my veins, into my heart. My heart pounds heavier and heavier against the door of my chest as if it were about to explode.
I sat at my loom, with only one candle burning brightly beside me, casting flickering shadows on the walls. Why, I asked myself. Why me? Why do I have to be the Chosen One?
Weave and weave, each hair wound around another. The glossiness, the shine of her locks was bright enough to rival a burning star.
As the car weaves from one side of the small-town street to the other, we watch in horror. We’re afraid of what the drunk driver will do. Will he kill himself, someone else? Get hit by a train?
entangled in a woven net the girl struggled. The half fish woman had been stuck since sunset and was only getting further woven inside the net.
your soul into another, the dark rhythmic cascade of love. Spoken in hushed whispers from heart to heart, a language we never fully grasp. It’s always been a struggle.
The tiny glass beads shimmered in the high sunlight
the tall grasses bent and swayed
the smell of dirt, wind, and oaks filled the air
My sister got a loom for christmas. she started to weave this lovely placemat and gave up soon after. I kind of wish she hadn’t, because it was going to be really pretty. She promised to weave me a guitar strap, but she never did…another broken promise.
Weaving strands of string together to form fabricated lies that happen, not out of choice but out of attention. To see what happens, to see what will be made of them. There is nothing new left to discover until the weaves have been pulled and the strings are all separated with nothing left but piles of uselessness.