i love making collages! it is, by far, the most therapeutic, artistic endeavor for me. i pour my heart and soul into each creation by first considering the recipient. admittedly, i cannot create a work without someone specific in mind to receive it.
i just feel like sitting late at night & slitting my wrist repeatedly. omg,this is becoming too much. feels like i have to act all happy & strong for everyone.i can’t even bring myself to cry, i don’t remember how to.
My life is a collage of friends. None everlasting, no happily ever after, only different groups at different times, different loves, different sorrows, alway changing, always replacing, never anyone to swore by. A collage might sound vibrant, energetic, colourful, but a collage is sometimes lonely and a bit hollow.
Brilliant microscopic images, solitary in theme and exposure amassed infront of a blurry interpreting eye. Waiting to be understood amidst a chaos imposed on another. Snippets and antiques of memories converge to form new.
im sick of life. the more i think about it the more i get upset. im hooked on twitter mate, i love facebook chat and most of all youtube. i have a normal family with the ups and downs and my mom is the best most of the time. love my family so much.
I spent a good bit of my early childhood making collages on Microsoft paint. If I were my parents I would have thought I was crazy. It got really bad right after the first Lord of the Rings movie came out. I was obsessed with the movies and even more obsessed with the actors. I would just find pictures of them on Google Image Search then combine all of those pictures into one giant, nerdtastic collage.
Collage is the art of making collages. You pick pieces of pictures and stick them together on a piece of paper I guess? I’m not really interested in collage but I know a lot of people who love it. It is a hobby and it can be very interesting and a beautiful kind of art.
It wasn’t just a collage of photos. It was a collage of memories, a college of moments she would never relive. This was a collage of the person she would never share a laugh with, or hold gazes with again. A photo of her and William in Hyde Park, sitting by the lake as he stares daggers at the mallards waddling in their direction. She felt her lips pull up into a half smile at the memory. Will had never been very fond of ducks. “Never trust a duck”, he would always say. And in the next photo, William again sitting by a pond. Their first son, James, holding the hand of their newest addition to the family, Lucie, as he walks her toward the pond’s edge. The look on Will’s face was that of utter happiness. He loved his children more than anything. “Even more than me”, Tessa sometimes thought.
it’s five pm and we’ve been packing since noon
we’re in her room and the a.c.’s off
she’s deciding what to take on her big move
her clothes are in three piles: good to go,
to be altered, charity box
she keeps bargaining with me
about the things that went in the last
it never fit you, i remind her
you bought it four inches too small for hour waist
promising yourself you’d lose the weight
it’s outdated, anyhow
and your father brought back that one
from a trip abroad
he has no taste, still doesn’t
it was ugly then as it is now
you meant to wear it once but you took it off
real quick because you felt frumpy
and that, you’ve had that since third grade
maybe it’ll be vintage, you say
maybe it won’t, i retort
we move on to the things she kept in her dresser
old knick-knacks and necklaces
that have come undone
their beads scattered all over the drawer bottom
this all belongs in the trash, i surmise
saving the few pieces of real jewellery, all gifts
from distant relatives
who never knew her enough to give her something
more personal for christmas
no, no
she won’t let go of a drawstring bag
filled with friendship bracelets
i made these myself
i tied them with pins to my backpack
and worked on them during class
you had meant to give them to your closest friends
for christmas too, coincidentally
but you were too embarrassed
they stayed in your drawer
their colours too dulled to adorn anyone’s wrists
then to old books, notebooks
there’s far more of them than either of you expected
piled up, taking space
she stills your hand as you reach for the garbage bag
i drew these, long ago
and i wrote these too
this was an art project, i got a perfect score
this was a homemade card for mother’s day
they’re sort of familiar to you too
but you haven’t seen them in years
you tell her as much
who knows when you’ll even read them again?
by then she starts crying
but these are all i have
i bought them with money put away
from my weekly allowance
i made them with my hands
i move on to posters of bands she used to listen to
don’t touch those! i can sell them
their edges are torn up from being taped up
too many times
they’re not even autographed
they have no value to anyone but you
i’ll put them back up one day–
i crack and start screaming
what the fuck is wrong with you?
you’ll never get anywhere
with all of these weighing you down
you even try and your luggage will break with the strain
you won’t be able to afford another
it’s time to move on
you’ll never grow up if all you do
it keep revisiting your younger selves
what does it matter? you hate every version
in that new room of yours
you’ll just be hating yourself
all over again
but at least your walls would be freshly painted
give it up
stop being terrified of an empty room
my voice goes hoarse and i glance at the mirror
my eyes are puffy and my cheeks are red
maybe the other way around
i’m all alone
A collection of images that elicit a memory, a message, or an emotion. Normally considered a visual piece, it can also be construed as a written, or musical piece as well. The video version is montage.
Life is like a collage of pieces. You build it up bit by bit and soon the layers start to overlap. Some faces get pasted over and others appear again and again. Colours, experiences, memories all collected together with the glue of time and slowly sprawling outwards…Only we don’t know where the canvas ends…
My life is a collage of varying personalities and fuax persona suits tailored to match the ones I’m with. I look in my own closet and the rack if full. A well developed style with spikes and soft spots. Not everyone will like it. I should wear it instead.
Sticky tricky bits of light
They know, they know, so don’t put up a fight
Because you know it much better than they
That glue won’t keep the burns away…
But into the glue jar you let your hands dive
lick your little fingers, feel the moisture dry
The wormy squirmy, mushy heart
has no need for plastic art.
Roll up your socks if they cling to your toes
blink twice and once if the beating slows
You know who I am and if you don’t I won’t tell
rosy cheeks don’t suit you too well.
altogether, clouds tumbling on top of one another, slightly see-through, transparent edges, silvering the light, filtering into white, long dark patched heavy on the meadows, moving slowly, like crawly cow spots.
i love making collages! it is, by far, the most therapeutic, artistic endeavor for me. i pour my heart and soul into each creation by first considering the recipient. admittedly, i cannot create a work without someone specific in mind to receive it.
i just feel like sitting late at night & slitting my wrist repeatedly. omg,this is becoming too much. feels like i have to act all happy & strong for everyone.i can’t even bring myself to cry, i don’t remember how to.
My life is a collage of friends. None everlasting, no happily ever after, only different groups at different times, different loves, different sorrows, alway changing, always replacing, never anyone to swore by. A collage might sound vibrant, energetic, colourful, but a collage is sometimes lonely and a bit hollow.
Brilliant microscopic images, solitary in theme and exposure amassed infront of a blurry interpreting eye. Waiting to be understood amidst a chaos imposed on another. Snippets and antiques of memories converge to form new.
Collage:
The place people become so tense, the place were memories are made and the place to love and cherish those memories.
im sick of life. the more i think about it the more i get upset. im hooked on twitter mate, i love facebook chat and most of all youtube. i have a normal family with the ups and downs and my mom is the best most of the time. love my family so much.
I spent a good bit of my early childhood making collages on Microsoft paint. If I were my parents I would have thought I was crazy. It got really bad right after the first Lord of the Rings movie came out. I was obsessed with the movies and even more obsessed with the actors. I would just find pictures of them on Google Image Search then combine all of those pictures into one giant, nerdtastic collage.
a new adventure
an opening door
an exciting challenge
an oppertunity
new
life
path
you.
Collage is the art of making collages. You pick pieces of pictures and stick them together on a piece of paper I guess? I’m not really interested in collage but I know a lot of people who love it. It is a hobby and it can be very interesting and a beautiful kind of art.
a time full of pressure and responsibility ,,,, time to learn and explore more …. a step towards success….. all together to live a happy life.
It wasn’t just a collage of photos. It was a collage of memories, a college of moments she would never relive. This was a collage of the person she would never share a laugh with, or hold gazes with again. A photo of her and William in Hyde Park, sitting by the lake as he stares daggers at the mallards waddling in their direction. She felt her lips pull up into a half smile at the memory. Will had never been very fond of ducks. “Never trust a duck”, he would always say. And in the next photo, William again sitting by a pond. Their first son, James, holding the hand of their newest addition to the family, Lucie, as he walks her toward the pond’s edge. The look on Will’s face was that of utter happiness. He loved his children more than anything. “Even more than me”, Tessa sometimes thought.
it’s five pm and we’ve been packing since noon
we’re in her room and the a.c.’s off
she’s deciding what to take on her big move
her clothes are in three piles: good to go,
to be altered, charity box
she keeps bargaining with me
about the things that went in the last
it never fit you, i remind her
you bought it four inches too small for hour waist
promising yourself you’d lose the weight
it’s outdated, anyhow
and your father brought back that one
from a trip abroad
he has no taste, still doesn’t
it was ugly then as it is now
you meant to wear it once but you took it off
real quick because you felt frumpy
and that, you’ve had that since third grade
maybe it’ll be vintage, you say
maybe it won’t, i retort
we move on to the things she kept in her dresser
old knick-knacks and necklaces
that have come undone
their beads scattered all over the drawer bottom
this all belongs in the trash, i surmise
saving the few pieces of real jewellery, all gifts
from distant relatives
who never knew her enough to give her something
more personal for christmas
no, no
she won’t let go of a drawstring bag
filled with friendship bracelets
i made these myself
i tied them with pins to my backpack
and worked on them during class
you had meant to give them to your closest friends
for christmas too, coincidentally
but you were too embarrassed
they stayed in your drawer
their colours too dulled to adorn anyone’s wrists
then to old books, notebooks
there’s far more of them than either of you expected
piled up, taking space
she stills your hand as you reach for the garbage bag
i drew these, long ago
and i wrote these too
this was an art project, i got a perfect score
this was a homemade card for mother’s day
they’re sort of familiar to you too
but you haven’t seen them in years
you tell her as much
who knows when you’ll even read them again?
by then she starts crying
but these are all i have
i bought them with money put away
from my weekly allowance
i made them with my hands
i move on to posters of bands she used to listen to
don’t touch those! i can sell them
their edges are torn up from being taped up
too many times
they’re not even autographed
they have no value to anyone but you
i’ll put them back up one day–
i crack and start screaming
what the fuck is wrong with you?
you’ll never get anywhere
with all of these weighing you down
you even try and your luggage will break with the strain
you won’t be able to afford another
it’s time to move on
you’ll never grow up if all you do
it keep revisiting your younger selves
what does it matter? you hate every version
in that new room of yours
you’ll just be hating yourself
all over again
but at least your walls would be freshly painted
give it up
stop being terrified of an empty room
my voice goes hoarse and i glance at the mirror
my eyes are puffy and my cheeks are red
maybe the other way around
i’m all alone
A collection of images that elicit a memory, a message, or an emotion. Normally considered a visual piece, it can also be construed as a written, or musical piece as well. The video version is montage.
Life is like a collage of pieces. You build it up bit by bit and soon the layers start to overlap. Some faces get pasted over and others appear again and again. Colours, experiences, memories all collected together with the glue of time and slowly sprawling outwards…Only we don’t know where the canvas ends…
My life is a collage of varying personalities and fuax persona suits tailored to match the ones I’m with. I look in my own closet and the rack if full. A well developed style with spikes and soft spots. Not everyone will like it. I should wear it instead.
A collage of Kristi’s image, is all that runs through my mind. I think of being with the woman of my dreams constantly.
Sticky tricky bits of light
They know, they know, so don’t put up a fight
Because you know it much better than they
That glue won’t keep the burns away…
But into the glue jar you let your hands dive
lick your little fingers, feel the moisture dry
The wormy squirmy, mushy heart
has no need for plastic art.
Roll up your socks if they cling to your toes
blink twice and once if the beating slows
You know who I am and if you don’t I won’t tell
rosy cheeks don’t suit you too well.
altogether, clouds tumbling on top of one another, slightly see-through, transparent edges, silvering the light, filtering into white, long dark patched heavy on the meadows, moving slowly, like crawly cow spots.
I am a Collage
My Dads temper and his nose
My moms smile when it shows
My Grandads hands that are so large
My Grandma’s spirit to be in charge