His hair was coarse as a horse’s mane, bristling up from his scalp against my hand as I held his head in my hands and kissed him gently, my lips brushing against his once, then again, and then I pulled back and looked into his eyes, my hands moving down to hold his cheek in my palms, and I smiled.
The entire city feels like an abrasive conversation with a disgruntled stranger. (In fact, I’ve already had a few of those.) The rough mornings of the rat race initially wear me out; my body isn’t ready to be pushed around and disregarded. No one in this city cares about anyone but themselves
The sand was so coarse against my skin as I lay on the beach in Verona. The waves were crashing in and receding just as quickly as they came. A seagull squawked overhead, announcing that it would soon come darting down for my sandwich.
Mr. Pisco
the abyss of the uncertain blocked her view
from distinguishing herself from the rest
a coarse and grainy silhouette of hers
she failed to establish her identity, no different from them
Ice
I cant help but feel that this coarse of life im taking was all for not, you were all for not. and now on the edge, drifting ever so slightly, I ponder whether when I fall my path will straighten out? can I turn back if your not there
hailey owens
Fingers grazing palms
Prayers for answers
Sandpaper to the touch
Efforts with coarse grain woods
Rather than
Courses on poetry
Gave him no serenity or completion
Nothing finer, smoother
His hands are coarse. Not as much as sand paper, but more like loose sand.
v
Language is a gift. A gift that man has developed over centuries. We’ve perfected the subtle nuances and contextual inferences that make each word totally different, and yet we still rely on coarse language as a means of effective emotional communication!
Bethany
The coarseness of his hair surprised. I had, I suppose, expected it to be silky. Still, I ran my palm across his shoulder, down his chest. He quivered.
“Beautiful beast,” I said. “Do you give yourself to me?”
He lowered his head, a noble nose touching the floor. He acquiesced. Agreed to be–
She coughed and it caught in her throat. It was raw and possibly bleeding. Her hands were scraped and she could feel a small hole wearing through the knee of her jeans. By her estimate she had about five minutes before she choked to death on smoke. She had been crawling around the floor for what felt like hours.
Beka
Her hair is coarse, and thick; I’ve watched her tried to trail her fingers through it, ineffably like the movie stars do, but it’s stubborn, and reluctant. It knots, she complains, it’s always dirty-looking. But it’s still somehow beautiful in a dingy, beaten-up way. And I’d never complain about her hair, if I had it.
His hair was coarse as a horse’s mane, bristling up from his scalp against my hand as I held his head in my hands and kissed him gently, my lips brushing against his once, then again, and then I pulled back and looked into his eyes, my hands moving down to hold his cheek in my palms, and I smiled.
The entire city feels like an abrasive conversation with a disgruntled stranger. (In fact, I’ve already had a few of those.) The rough mornings of the rat race initially wear me out; my body isn’t ready to be pushed around and disregarded. No one in this city cares about anyone but themselves
The sand was so coarse against my skin as I lay on the beach in Verona. The waves were crashing in and receding just as quickly as they came. A seagull squawked overhead, announcing that it would soon come darting down for my sandwich.
the abyss of the uncertain blocked her view
from distinguishing herself from the rest
a coarse and grainy silhouette of hers
she failed to establish her identity, no different from them
I cant help but feel that this coarse of life im taking was all for not, you were all for not. and now on the edge, drifting ever so slightly, I ponder whether when I fall my path will straighten out? can I turn back if your not there
Fingers grazing palms
Prayers for answers
Sandpaper to the touch
Efforts with coarse grain woods
Rather than
Courses on poetry
Gave him no serenity or completion
Nothing finer, smoother
Living in this college town
Pretending to be
His hands are coarse. Not as much as sand paper, but more like loose sand.
Language is a gift. A gift that man has developed over centuries. We’ve perfected the subtle nuances and contextual inferences that make each word totally different, and yet we still rely on coarse language as a means of effective emotional communication!
The coarseness of his hair surprised. I had, I suppose, expected it to be silky. Still, I ran my palm across his shoulder, down his chest. He quivered.
“Beautiful beast,” I said. “Do you give yourself to me?”
He lowered his head, a noble nose touching the floor. He acquiesced. Agreed to be–
Mine.
She coughed and it caught in her throat. It was raw and possibly bleeding. Her hands were scraped and she could feel a small hole wearing through the knee of her jeans. By her estimate she had about five minutes before she choked to death on smoke. She had been crawling around the floor for what felt like hours.
Her hair is coarse, and thick; I’ve watched her tried to trail her fingers through it, ineffably like the movie stars do, but it’s stubborn, and reluctant. It knots, she complains, it’s always dirty-looking. But it’s still somehow beautiful in a dingy, beaten-up way. And I’d never complain about her hair, if I had it.