On the skin and on the personality, blotches are a frequent issue in any social convention. For we can visually see a blotch, a tear in any walk of life, however It is almost impossible to cure, much like a blotch on a unstained canvas, a blotch affects our visual understanding of another.
when I’m wearing a shirt that never intends to have other colors on it I always seem to find a way to put some sort of food stain on it. White, brown, blue, the color does not matter. All that matters when it comes to these types of shirts comes second to the blotches I have put on them…
The old man with the blotches on his face was at it again. Cursing at children on their way to school. Why didn’t he act normal. what was wrong with him. Why was he so mean?
Marks on skin that can be both beautiful and completely unattractive at the same time. Marks that make you stand out or make you fit in. A stain on a perfectly clean record, a moment in time that mars something that is otherwise completely perfect. Or something that is imperfect and is made to become beautiful. Spots in the snow, where water had dripped onto the whiteness. Rocks in the river
blotches are like lakes and rivers and blood, all in the manner that they can bend and twist and sicken. i couldn’t tighten my belt this morning; i blamed not my pants, but blotches. i cut myself shaving. once again, it was the blotches. i burnt my toast. blotches.
The blotches on the old man’s face made you think of the moon. No one knew where they came from just that he had looked that way as long as anyone could remember. Why was he so mean, that was the real question. What had happened in his life to make him so unpleasant?
blotches are very bad they are not something that i try to dmake i am not bltohcing out my apowiefjjfs aji fand it hthink that if you took blotches away fro m humanity they would be happy or possibly asd i don’t really kow and i cant figure it out but blotches are pretty weird. i dont even know if i know wh what they are.
One time I was walking down the street and there were a series of blotches on the sidewalk. I tried my best to avoid them, but the closer I got, the larger they became until finally I found myself stepping all over the dark, inky circles. Suddenly, my feet became harder and harder to move and it seemed as if they were sticking to the ground, something I never could have predicted…
Blotches.
There are blotches everywhere. I can’t escape them. They cover the walls.. surrounding me, terrifying me. They are red and mean and angry. Blotches of blood. Blotches of sin.
blotches can be a form of art, they… well my keyboard is being slow so i can’t say that much without messing up.. do people tead these? can i tell secrets o here? i wonder…. i like this guy. over the internet. never met. what do i do? well idrk. he’s not all that cute. but whatever. i enjoy drawing turtles i guess..
I couldn’t believe the blotches that came up all over his skin. How could one kiss do that? I stumbled backwards as they covered his entire body. This was my fault, how could I have done that. I love him and now I have hurt him.
Blotches of paint covered the beautiful. Who could have done this to her painting? All of her hard work has now gone to waste. The tears begin to fall.
He was on the prowl. His snout to the ground he was sniffing the next one out. In the forest, damp with fresh rain, was a girl in a little red cardigan.
As the werewolf pursued, the dripping saliva left a smattering of blotches in his wild fur.
The blotches on her face were beginning to spread. Dry and red, flaking of in pieces is if her face was snowing tiny white flecks of skin. Her once perfect complexion was now peeling of in resentment of the rest of her body. It knew her secret and it was trying to fall free and warn the rest of the world. She was becoming a monster. And it was because if him.
The blotches on my jeans. of pen of sticking staining nonsense. The blotches over my heart. Of mini moments of sweeping hope, of pulled rugs, of all the etches that were too deep. You are just a blotch among the other blotches.
Examined close-up, a blotch may be ugly, bleak, meaningless, and abstract; yet when we step back and see the bigger picture, this blotch may necessitate the overall beauty of the text, of art, of our lives, and even of our world. Thus a lesson is gained – our conscious experience and individual perception may be limited, and this may hinder us.
there were blotches in his memory. the frustration he felt only served to make him forget even more. was it important to remember, he thought to himself. he reassured himself, looked up into the sky and said allowed, “it will come, when I’m ready.”
The ink blotches on the course paper told of the difficulty she was having in putting her thoughts into written words. But with a little inspiration and creativity she knew she could make something beautiful.
There were many blotches all over Jacob’s skin. The doctors could not diagnose the cause of these blotches and instead resumed a hopeless guessing game in which no desirable end could be reached.
She felt heavy in this new skin, but it was a good weight, a good feeling. Solid. Balanced, even. That she had snatched it on the train, late on a weeknight was even better. She’d simply dumped the gloopy innards down a tunnel and waited for the rats, their red eyes glimmering in the doom, to do the rest. Such a great skin, too, she thought. If only they’d last longer. This one was already showing signs of decay. “Oh, well,” she thought. “There’s more where that came from.”
She reached for some foundation, to cover up the blotches. She first needed to feed, then she needed the luxury of new flesh.
blotches are marks. spots. spills. things that weren’t meant to be. They are mistakes. Some people use blotches to decide how they feel about life. I think instead they should decide more carefully what blotches to make. Mistakes are the most important part of life.
Ronald Mcdonald had a whole lote to answer for- not only did he indoctrinate kids into eating a dangerous concoction of heart disease and indigestion, expanding his evil empire like a virulent strain of zombie flu, striking a deep lust of meat into otherwise placid office workers and consequently destroying vast swathes of natures most biodiverse masterpieces- at least all that was on the level- everyone was kind of aware of that aspect, but the patties were too good to pass by and a mcmuffin goes oh so well with a hangover… no, there was more concealed evil at work- the shares in the washing powder companies, raking in millions from the blotches left by over-eager ketchup fiends and mustard junkies.
They form on the skin. They create an uneven skin tone that perhaps is found unattractive by some. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Perhaps blotches are beautiful. Who knows? Skin is amazing.
I thought of them as blotches on my soul. Those dark spots that I would never be able to erase. The world would always know of my imperfection. Original sins, but they were lies. I am beautiful.
The girls tear stained and blotched eyes looked into the horizon to see the angel coming for her. It raised it’s eyebrows at her and lifted its talons at the last minute. And swooped directly past her causing her to fall into the sea. But then she realized that that she could fly without him.
She sat lazily under the sun umbrella. The shrieks of children around her playing in the water. The hours in the sun, taking a noticeable toll on her. Bright red blotches appearing on the exposed parts of her skin.
Thorn’s fingers slipped down the wall, feeling the blotches of red still warm from her kill. That grin crept onto her lips as she relished in the memory of the madness that had over taken her. She lived for it. The thrill, the sudden release of all her anger and hatred. It was…. calming.
If she was ever tempted to turn the heat up in her shower, Marcella knew she would also suffer the consequences – blotches. Big, red, angry blotches all over her body. She enjoyed her hot showers, but when would she ever learn…
Blotches. I hate it when my bronzer leaves them on my face. It makes me look gross and I don’t reay like to look gross.
I don’t understand blotches that much either. Lke when your painting r project gets wet. You have blotches in it. And thatsreall annoying.
do you see the blotches on his face? its from the constant yearning of his lost love. the stress was never washed clean. that is why you should never be shy to ask, because you are afraid of the answer.
the blotches filled the room like a fire, flames extending from one room to the next, and I had honestly never felt so alive. I couldn’t quite grasp what was occurring beneath my paintbrush but as the colors continued to move, i began to dance along side them.
I asked him if he was nervous (because I was) and he told me no. I saw the red blotches on his chest, an obvious sign of nervousness. Why did he lie? No time to think about that as his lips slide against mine. He flips us over, intensity in his eyes as he thrusts forward to make me forget.
“For the fifth time, I did not stain your shirt!”
“Then WHY are there blotches on it?”
“Last night I borrowed your shirt, but I didn’t stain it. The ketchup was on a suicide mission, I swear!”
Drip. Drip. Drip. Three spots seeped into my paper. Nothing came to mind, nor did anything make it on the paper. Inspiration left me, and all I had for myself was three little blotches on my story.
On the skin and on the personality, blotches are a frequent issue in any social convention. For we can visually see a blotch, a tear in any walk of life, however It is almost impossible to cure, much like a blotch on a unstained canvas, a blotch affects our visual understanding of another.
the stuff my mom has on her face.
makes cool art and therapist use it to tell if you’re crazy.
not cool most of the time.
…OF RED.
i feel like hash tagging it on twitter
when I’m wearing a shirt that never intends to have other colors on it I always seem to find a way to put some sort of food stain on it. White, brown, blue, the color does not matter. All that matters when it comes to these types of shirts comes second to the blotches I have put on them…
The old man with the blotches on his face was at it again. Cursing at children on their way to school. Why didn’t he act normal. what was wrong with him. Why was he so mean?
Marks on skin that can be both beautiful and completely unattractive at the same time. Marks that make you stand out or make you fit in. A stain on a perfectly clean record, a moment in time that mars something that is otherwise completely perfect. Or something that is imperfect and is made to become beautiful. Spots in the snow, where water had dripped onto the whiteness. Rocks in the river
blotches are like lakes and rivers and blood, all in the manner that they can bend and twist and sicken. i couldn’t tighten my belt this morning; i blamed not my pants, but blotches. i cut myself shaving. once again, it was the blotches. i burnt my toast. blotches.
The blotches on the old man’s face made you think of the moon. No one knew where they came from just that he had looked that way as long as anyone could remember. Why was he so mean, that was the real question. What had happened in his life to make him so unpleasant?
blotches are very bad they are not something that i try to dmake i am not bltohcing out my apowiefjjfs aji fand it hthink that if you took blotches away fro m humanity they would be happy or possibly asd i don’t really kow and i cant figure it out but blotches are pretty weird. i dont even know if i know wh what they are.
One time I was walking down the street and there were a series of blotches on the sidewalk. I tried my best to avoid them, but the closer I got, the larger they became until finally I found myself stepping all over the dark, inky circles. Suddenly, my feet became harder and harder to move and it seemed as if they were sticking to the ground, something I never could have predicted…
Blotches.
There are blotches everywhere. I can’t escape them. They cover the walls.. surrounding me, terrifying me. They are red and mean and angry. Blotches of blood. Blotches of sin.
blotches can be a form of art, they… well my keyboard is being slow so i can’t say that much without messing up.. do people tead these? can i tell secrets o here? i wonder…. i like this guy. over the internet. never met. what do i do? well idrk. he’s not all that cute. but whatever. i enjoy drawing turtles i guess..
I couldn’t believe the blotches that came up all over his skin. How could one kiss do that? I stumbled backwards as they covered his entire body. This was my fault, how could I have done that. I love him and now I have hurt him.
Blotches of paint covered the beautiful. Who could have done this to her painting? All of her hard work has now gone to waste. The tears begin to fall.
He was on the prowl. His snout to the ground he was sniffing the next one out. In the forest, damp with fresh rain, was a girl in a little red cardigan.
As the werewolf pursued, the dripping saliva left a smattering of blotches in his wild fur.
The blotches on her face were beginning to spread. Dry and red, flaking of in pieces is if her face was snowing tiny white flecks of skin. Her once perfect complexion was now peeling of in resentment of the rest of her body. It knew her secret and it was trying to fall free and warn the rest of the world. She was becoming a monster. And it was because if him.
The blotches on my jeans. of pen of sticking staining nonsense. The blotches over my heart. Of mini moments of sweeping hope, of pulled rugs, of all the etches that were too deep. You are just a blotch among the other blotches.
Examined close-up, a blotch may be ugly, bleak, meaningless, and abstract; yet when we step back and see the bigger picture, this blotch may necessitate the overall beauty of the text, of art, of our lives, and even of our world. Thus a lesson is gained – our conscious experience and individual perception may be limited, and this may hinder us.
there were blotches in his memory. the frustration he felt only served to make him forget even more. was it important to remember, he thought to himself. he reassured himself, looked up into the sky and said allowed, “it will come, when I’m ready.”
The ink blotches on the course paper told of the difficulty she was having in putting her thoughts into written words. But with a little inspiration and creativity she knew she could make something beautiful.
There were many blotches all over Jacob’s skin. The doctors could not diagnose the cause of these blotches and instead resumed a hopeless guessing game in which no desirable end could be reached.
She felt heavy in this new skin, but it was a good weight, a good feeling. Solid. Balanced, even. That she had snatched it on the train, late on a weeknight was even better. She’d simply dumped the gloopy innards down a tunnel and waited for the rats, their red eyes glimmering in the doom, to do the rest. Such a great skin, too, she thought. If only they’d last longer. This one was already showing signs of decay. “Oh, well,” she thought. “There’s more where that came from.”
She reached for some foundation, to cover up the blotches. She first needed to feed, then she needed the luxury of new flesh.
blotches are marks. spots. spills. things that weren’t meant to be. They are mistakes. Some people use blotches to decide how they feel about life. I think instead they should decide more carefully what blotches to make. Mistakes are the most important part of life.
The blotches of ink all over the piece of paper reveal the path of the pen.
Ronald Mcdonald had a whole lote to answer for- not only did he indoctrinate kids into eating a dangerous concoction of heart disease and indigestion, expanding his evil empire like a virulent strain of zombie flu, striking a deep lust of meat into otherwise placid office workers and consequently destroying vast swathes of natures most biodiverse masterpieces- at least all that was on the level- everyone was kind of aware of that aspect, but the patties were too good to pass by and a mcmuffin goes oh so well with a hangover… no, there was more concealed evil at work- the shares in the washing powder companies, raking in millions from the blotches left by over-eager ketchup fiends and mustard junkies.
They form on the skin. They create an uneven skin tone that perhaps is found unattractive by some. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Perhaps blotches are beautiful. Who knows? Skin is amazing.
I thought of them as blotches on my soul. Those dark spots that I would never be able to erase. The world would always know of my imperfection. Original sins, but they were lies. I am beautiful.
The girls tear stained and blotched eyes looked into the horizon to see the angel coming for her. It raised it’s eyebrows at her and lifted its talons at the last minute. And swooped directly past her causing her to fall into the sea. But then she realized that that she could fly without him.
She sat lazily under the sun umbrella. The shrieks of children around her playing in the water. The hours in the sun, taking a noticeable toll on her. Bright red blotches appearing on the exposed parts of her skin.
Thorn’s fingers slipped down the wall, feeling the blotches of red still warm from her kill. That grin crept onto her lips as she relished in the memory of the madness that had over taken her. She lived for it. The thrill, the sudden release of all her anger and hatred. It was…. calming.
If she was ever tempted to turn the heat up in her shower, Marcella knew she would also suffer the consequences – blotches. Big, red, angry blotches all over her body. She enjoyed her hot showers, but when would she ever learn…
Everything about you is amazing. Your perfect and I can’t believe i kissed that. I kissed you. It was like magic. You are amazing.
Blotches. I hate it when my bronzer leaves them on my face. It makes me look gross and I don’t reay like to look gross.
I don’t understand blotches that much either. Lke when your painting r project gets wet. You have blotches in it. And thatsreall annoying.
do you see the blotches on his face? its from the constant yearning of his lost love. the stress was never washed clean. that is why you should never be shy to ask, because you are afraid of the answer.
the blotches filled the room like a fire, flames extending from one room to the next, and I had honestly never felt so alive. I couldn’t quite grasp what was occurring beneath my paintbrush but as the colors continued to move, i began to dance along side them.
There are blotches all over my skin, purple and black and blue and every other colour in betweet.
They’re new. Fresh. Marks that weren’t there yesterday, but replace the yellowing ones that remain from the day before that, and the day before that.
They’re blotches, marks on my skin that will never fade because they make me his.
They make me his.
I asked him if he was nervous (because I was) and he told me no. I saw the red blotches on his chest, an obvious sign of nervousness. Why did he lie? No time to think about that as his lips slide against mine. He flips us over, intensity in his eyes as he thrusts forward to make me forget.
one word. one. this is it.
“For the fifth time, I did not stain your shirt!”
“Then WHY are there blotches on it?”
“Last night I borrowed your shirt, but I didn’t stain it. The ketchup was on a suicide mission, I swear!”
ink blotches
ink splotches
drip
drip
drip
nothing to write
just blank
with only a blotch
to show that I was here
Drip. Drip. Drip. Three spots seeped into my paper. Nothing came to mind, nor did anything make it on the paper. Inspiration left me, and all I had for myself was three little blotches on my story.