About the only thing i can think of at this moment is the song about painting red doors black. I can’t even remember the title or the band. So much for creativity…
The canva wasnt painted on as much as the paining within was discovered. It was thiskill that he admired most, the one thahe most anted to replicate. What lie experience could he be missing? Was his childhood rsed with obscurity and complacency? The fire that artists exhibit when painting must come from some coalition of events in ones childhood. The absent father, the drunken stepmother, both providing material for future artists.
i have painted my soul with disguises so that nobody sees who i really am. the walls are painted since we are moving. my life needs a new coat of paint too. i think
sometimes i wish my life painted a picture that was more perfect: i wish that it had me married, as a designer, with children, and a tiny puppy i could fit in my purse. but right now, the portrait my life has painted is nothing more than smears; smudges. but it’s kind of a beautiful mess.
The painted daisy was a craft store near here that didn’t sell one painted daisy. I don’t know why they called themselves that. Maybe that had a lot of daisies that needed painting and thought that the name would suck in daisy painting nuts.
Painted, it’s the past tense of what I want to have accomplished with this world, pictured right with my place in it in my head. I keep writing down the world in my mind, like it’s a canvas, but it’s always twisted and wrong and I don’t know what to do about it. I don’t want to paint it, artists are rare in that I find few artists who aren’t pretentious and as twisted as my imperfect interpretations of the world. I want to write it down, love, and understand.
Once I painted my house green. It looked really good and
I liked it so much I painted all the rooms green too. It looked pretty awesome.
My sister helped me paint it and she fell from the stairs and broke her arm.
But she’s alright.
I painted a school once while I was in South America. The biggest thing that stuck out to me is that while I was painting that school bright blue the kids were in it. All the kids would point to my shoes and talk about them. It shocked me that they were so intrigued by my silly, bowling alley shoes. It put things into perspective for me.
I painted a picture last night and it’s in the dining room under a sheet. The dining room is dark but my painting isn’t. My painting is dark blurs and gold like the starry night but different because what you will see in my painting is me. I hid it under the sheet. I’m scared for people to see who I am.
Painted… I think of clowns. Ok now I’m thinking of a very funny comedy bit I heard recently. Too long to post though. Had me laughing out loud in the Dentist’s office of all places, as I listened to it in the waiting room, then the dentist chair, then while waiting for my filling to dry…
Beauty. Strokes of ink filling a page. Harmony. Love on the canvas. Brush strokes telling a story. Colors blurring your world while sharpening your senses. Aesthetically enhancing the vision. Paint lightens the dark, un-mutes the walls and brings warmth to the cold.
When i went home at the weekend my parents had painted the dining room yellow. it was always white when i lived there. It reminds me that its no longer my home, and that somehow i’ve grown up a little bit and have my own white washed walls. It looked nice though, and as it’s summer, i suppose it’ll look nice.
The walls were painted but chipped. The floors covered with tile. Momma walked into the kitchen with the groceries. “What would you like for dinner Annie.?” “Anything is fine with me.”
I painted the mural on the wall, at first it looked ridiculous. Rafael didn’t think so but he would of course want it to work out ok, the blood of an Italian man requires to be set on fire by
The sunset looked painted, it was the perfect night to tell him how I felt. You’d think that It’d be heart breaking to break up with someone. Who’d think I’d be so excited and feel so empowers. The beauty of the sunset told me today would end a chapter of my life, and I look forward to the new future, and I know that this won’t end badly, just a new chapter.
“Painted up her lips and rolled and curled her tinted hair.: Kenny Rogers…one of my mom’s favorite singers way back when! If I hear that song come on the radio, I’m immediately taken back to a summer long ago when I was little and hanging out in the yard with my brother, while my mom listened to the radio with a Coke in her hand!
Painted faces around the town. Fake people everywhere and it kills my insides. Walking the hallways of school you can see people talking and laughing with each other but in my mind I’m wondering if they’ve painted that face on so they can have a companion that is worse at something than them. They’re fake and it breaks my heart. Luckily they’re not all fake.
A picture of emotions, someone who has artistic ability. Past tense, something that explains how someone felt before, or it could be a person who is painted with emotions or characteristics. Painted is a word which describes something which has already happened, the word painted can express many things.
The masterpiece was mounted on the white wall. It stood there and watched as the pedestrians viewed its beautiful body. There was nothing else to do but see the people, big and small, short and tall.
I couldn’t open the window at the bus that day, so I just looked away. If that were any diferent, perhaps I could noticed that the door of her was painted in red.
We painted the stairs when we first moved in. We scraped the leaves from between the crack for hours. Then we painted. We painted with our backs to the sun, the hot Georgia sun. When we were finished, we painted the walls.
My room has recently been painted. Ivory. It looks nice, fresh and clean. It makes everything brighter and the fairy lights around my bed make it look like something out of a movie. It’s very cute :)
our world is filled with colors so bright and intense, we need some sort of characterization to all our imagination. hence, we painted. we must not lose our sense of sense to the technology that has grasped the better of our society. what better way to show our true identity than to let the curling and swaying of a paintbrush against that textured surface talk miles about us?
The neighbors across the street just had their house repainted. It used to be kind of a dull brown, and now it is a bright light grey, which is a little garish to my taste but he said it isn’t noticeable. They made the door red–why does everyone do that?–and the trim white. It was quite noisy, what with the giant metal ladders for several days. Plus the cars were parked on the wrong side of the street, where parking is prohibited.
He painted a picture of a bird. Flying above the trees. Carressing the clouds and kissing the air. It inspired him to fly. High above the chimney tops. And so he did. and so he died. the end sir.
Her painted face is swelled from repeated blows to her head. Bitch wanted some action? She got it. Got it hard. And I thought I loved her. But, it was a long time ago. That story, as all of them are, is true and painfull. More to her now, than to me.
I painted my life. Now it is done. It’s the end of it all, and hopefully people will like it. True I won’t really enjoy it because I’m going to be gone, but hopefully other people will. It’s my painted version of life, where I started since I was born. Now I’m going to stop, when I die. Which is any day now.
She painted onto the canvas, attempting to bring that colors from her mind into reality. It was a pretty scene, one of a sunset over the line of mountains in the distance. But it wasn’t quite right. The colors weren’t as vibrant as she had imagined them…But with practice, she knew that she would get there. With time, she would.
A brush, some paper. Pouring out feelings. You shouldn’t really think when painting, it’ll mess up your entire project. Pull out thoughts and feelings from the deep realms of your cranium. Place them on the paper (or other surface) using only your hands and the brush that they’re holding.
Admire or despise your work.
The end.
We painted it gray. The color of neutrality, the color of understanding, the color of moderation, the color of 6 month old horse shit. I’m tired of stupid platitudes telling me hope floats. Shit sinks and takes you down with it. I won’t subscribe to these ‘life changing’ one liners anymore. I’m tired of trading in my badly established traditional values to the endless wisdom of a neglected fortune cookie. I mean the neglected fortune cookie has problems of his own really. Its easy to tell where all this BS comes from. Born to compete, born to attack under stress, born to cut corners and throw smoke screens blatantly obviously in order to sound correct, to suit his warped perception of the situation. Cynicism at its finest, I know, but its hard to be optimistic when your ‘solution’ is fucking one of your besties with testies.
Her humming painted Jensen’s mind with a salve of comfort. And, well, he thought, his soft breasts didn’t hurt much either. As she reached up to fix his pillow, Jensen thought just for a millionth of a second to open his mouth, but in the end just lay there basking in his stewy cacoon of dreamy peace.
ladies, primped and preened and glossed and plucked and powdered, beautiful fake masks, smiling with static grimaces in order to not disturb the manufactured beauty.
Water swirling lovely colours around. Imagination pouring out through relaxed fingertips. The result is art, true art, a lovely image from the deep realms of my cranium. Though I’m not usually satisfied with the ending. Begin again.
I painted it. It was perfect. It was beautiful. It was her. I grinned at my patient, still model behind my easel, and she smiled back, so daintily. Her very presence made me so happy. I glanced down at her hands and frowned. Rot.
A painting, gorgeous, and breathtaking. It mesmerized them both. The sirens blared outside and the demons roamed the streets, taking the lives of anything in their paths. But in that museum, that one moment, those two people became one. John and Alyssa stared at a painting. That beautifully painted and mesmerizing piece of artwork brought them together. They didn’t hear the sirens, they didn’t even feel the demon when it tore through them and they were left, lifeless, on the ground in a pool of blood, hand in hand.
I wish I hadn’t painted over the art I had made on my walls. It’s a sad symbol of how I tried to cover up who I really was to fit in with what was considered normal. I miss my swirls of expression. I miss the red wall of anger I painted after my friends death and I miss my purple wall that symbolized my dreamlike state of unbelief…
About the only thing i can think of at this moment is the song about painting red doors black. I can’t even remember the title or the band. So much for creativity…
The canva wasnt painted on as much as the paining within was discovered. It was thiskill that he admired most, the one thahe most anted to replicate. What lie experience could he be missing? Was his childhood rsed with obscurity and complacency? The fire that artists exhibit when painting must come from some coalition of events in ones childhood. The absent father, the drunken stepmother, both providing material for future artists.
She painted all her black roses red. Left to hide beneath the color. The sky would one day have to be painted too.
i have painted my soul with disguises so that nobody sees who i really am. the walls are painted since we are moving. my life needs a new coat of paint too. i think
sometimes i wish my life painted a picture that was more perfect: i wish that it had me married, as a designer, with children, and a tiny puppy i could fit in my purse. but right now, the portrait my life has painted is nothing more than smears; smudges. but it’s kind of a beautiful mess.
brush
color
face
past
saturation
sensation
humor
effervescence
action
pleasure
drop
The painted daisy was a craft store near here that didn’t sell one painted daisy. I don’t know why they called themselves that. Maybe that had a lot of daisies that needed painting and thought that the name would suck in daisy painting nuts.
Painted, it’s the past tense of what I want to have accomplished with this world, pictured right with my place in it in my head. I keep writing down the world in my mind, like it’s a canvas, but it’s always twisted and wrong and I don’t know what to do about it. I don’t want to paint it, artists are rare in that I find few artists who aren’t pretentious and as twisted as my imperfect interpretations of the world. I want to write it down, love, and understand.
Once I painted my house green. It looked really good and
I liked it so much I painted all the rooms green too. It looked pretty awesome.
My sister helped me paint it and she fell from the stairs and broke her arm.
But she’s alright.
I painted a school once while I was in South America. The biggest thing that stuck out to me is that while I was painting that school bright blue the kids were in it. All the kids would point to my shoes and talk about them. It shocked me that they were so intrigued by my silly, bowling alley shoes. It put things into perspective for me.
I painted a picture last night and it’s in the dining room under a sheet. The dining room is dark but my painting isn’t. My painting is dark blurs and gold like the starry night but different because what you will see in my painting is me. I hid it under the sheet. I’m scared for people to see who I am.
Painted
… ponies go up and down…
Painted… I think of clowns. Ok now I’m thinking of a very funny comedy bit I heard recently. Too long to post though. Had me laughing out loud in the Dentist’s office of all places, as I listened to it in the waiting room, then the dentist chair, then while waiting for my filling to dry…
Laughing. At the dentist’s… -It was that good.
“Clown!”
Beauty. Strokes of ink filling a page. Harmony. Love on the canvas. Brush strokes telling a story. Colors blurring your world while sharpening your senses. Aesthetically enhancing the vision. Paint lightens the dark, un-mutes the walls and brings warmth to the cold.
When i went home at the weekend my parents had painted the dining room yellow. it was always white when i lived there. It reminds me that its no longer my home, and that somehow i’ve grown up a little bit and have my own white washed walls. It looked nice though, and as it’s summer, i suppose it’ll look nice.
The walls were painted but chipped. The floors covered with tile. Momma walked into the kitchen with the groceries. “What would you like for dinner Annie.?” “Anything is fine with me.”
I painted the mural on the wall, at first it looked ridiculous. Rafael didn’t think so but he would of course want it to work out ok, the blood of an Italian man requires to be set on fire by
The sunset looked painted, it was the perfect night to tell him how I felt. You’d think that It’d be heart breaking to break up with someone. Who’d think I’d be so excited and feel so empowers. The beauty of the sunset told me today would end a chapter of my life, and I look forward to the new future, and I know that this won’t end badly, just a new chapter.
“Painted up her lips and rolled and curled her tinted hair.: Kenny Rogers…one of my mom’s favorite singers way back when! If I hear that song come on the radio, I’m immediately taken back to a summer long ago when I was little and hanging out in the yard with my brother, while my mom listened to the radio with a Coke in her hand!
Painted faces around the town. Fake people everywhere and it kills my insides. Walking the hallways of school you can see people talking and laughing with each other but in my mind I’m wondering if they’ve painted that face on so they can have a companion that is worse at something than them. They’re fake and it breaks my heart. Luckily they’re not all fake.
A picture of emotions, someone who has artistic ability. Past tense, something that explains how someone felt before, or it could be a person who is painted with emotions or characteristics. Painted is a word which describes something which has already happened, the word painted can express many things.
The masterpiece was mounted on the white wall. It stood there and watched as the pedestrians viewed its beautiful body. There was nothing else to do but see the people, big and small, short and tall.
I couldn’t open the window at the bus that day, so I just looked away. If that were any diferent, perhaps I could noticed that the door of her was painted in red.
We painted the stairs when we first moved in. We scraped the leaves from between the crack for hours. Then we painted. We painted with our backs to the sun, the hot Georgia sun. When we were finished, we painted the walls.
My room has recently been painted. Ivory. It looks nice, fresh and clean. It makes everything brighter and the fairy lights around my bed make it look like something out of a movie. It’s very cute :)
our world is filled with colors so bright and intense, we need some sort of characterization to all our imagination. hence, we painted. we must not lose our sense of sense to the technology that has grasped the better of our society. what better way to show our true identity than to let the curling and swaying of a paintbrush against that textured surface talk miles about us?
The neighbors across the street just had their house repainted. It used to be kind of a dull brown, and now it is a bright light grey, which is a little garish to my taste but he said it isn’t noticeable. They made the door red–why does everyone do that?–and the trim white. It was quite noisy, what with the giant metal ladders for several days. Plus the cars were parked on the wrong side of the street, where parking is prohibited.
He painted a picture of a bird. Flying above the trees. Carressing the clouds and kissing the air. It inspired him to fly. High above the chimney tops. And so he did. and so he died. the end sir.
Her painted face is swelled from repeated blows to her head. Bitch wanted some action? She got it. Got it hard. And I thought I loved her. But, it was a long time ago. That story, as all of them are, is true and painfull. More to her now, than to me.
I painted my life. Now it is done. It’s the end of it all, and hopefully people will like it. True I won’t really enjoy it because I’m going to be gone, but hopefully other people will. It’s my painted version of life, where I started since I was born. Now I’m going to stop, when I die. Which is any day now.
She painted onto the canvas, attempting to bring that colors from her mind into reality. It was a pretty scene, one of a sunset over the line of mountains in the distance. But it wasn’t quite right. The colors weren’t as vibrant as she had imagined them…But with practice, she knew that she would get there. With time, she would.
A brush, some paper. Pouring out feelings. You shouldn’t really think when painting, it’ll mess up your entire project. Pull out thoughts and feelings from the deep realms of your cranium. Place them on the paper (or other surface) using only your hands and the brush that they’re holding.
Admire or despise your work.
The end.
Painted.
Painted nails, painted faces, painted cavases, painted memories, painted smiles.
I’m really freaking good at painting.
We painted it gray. The color of neutrality, the color of understanding, the color of moderation, the color of 6 month old horse shit. I’m tired of stupid platitudes telling me hope floats. Shit sinks and takes you down with it. I won’t subscribe to these ‘life changing’ one liners anymore. I’m tired of trading in my badly established traditional values to the endless wisdom of a neglected fortune cookie. I mean the neglected fortune cookie has problems of his own really. Its easy to tell where all this BS comes from. Born to compete, born to attack under stress, born to cut corners and throw smoke screens blatantly obviously in order to sound correct, to suit his warped perception of the situation. Cynicism at its finest, I know, but its hard to be optimistic when your ‘solution’ is fucking one of your besties with testies.
Her humming painted Jensen’s mind with a salve of comfort. And, well, he thought, his soft breasts didn’t hurt much either. As she reached up to fix his pillow, Jensen thought just for a millionth of a second to open his mouth, but in the end just lay there basking in his stewy cacoon of dreamy peace.
ladies, primped and preened and glossed and plucked and powdered, beautiful fake masks, smiling with static grimaces in order to not disturb the manufactured beauty.
Water swirling lovely colours around. Imagination pouring out through relaxed fingertips. The result is art, true art, a lovely image from the deep realms of my cranium. Though I’m not usually satisfied with the ending. Begin again.
I painted it. It was perfect. It was beautiful. It was her. I grinned at my patient, still model behind my easel, and she smiled back, so daintily. Her very presence made me so happy. I glanced down at her hands and frowned. Rot.
A painting, gorgeous, and breathtaking. It mesmerized them both. The sirens blared outside and the demons roamed the streets, taking the lives of anything in their paths. But in that museum, that one moment, those two people became one. John and Alyssa stared at a painting. That beautifully painted and mesmerizing piece of artwork brought them together. They didn’t hear the sirens, they didn’t even feel the demon when it tore through them and they were left, lifeless, on the ground in a pool of blood, hand in hand.
Painted faces surround me, suffocate me.
I wish I hadn’t painted over the art I had made on my walls. It’s a sad symbol of how I tried to cover up who I really was to fit in with what was considered normal. I miss my swirls of expression. I miss the red wall of anger I painted after my friends death and I miss my purple wall that symbolized my dreamlike state of unbelief…