Everything changed in that one small moment. The colors… changed. From their normal dull shards sparked an exciting flare that nearly stunned Aura’s eyes. She blinked for a few standard seconds to comprehend what was even happening, as the seconds past and her eyes began to adjust… she finally saw was genuine happiness was.
Everything changed in that one small moment. The colors… changed. From their normal dull shards sparked an exciting flare that nearly stunned Aura’s eyes. She blinked for a few standard seconds to comprehend what was even happening, as the seconds past and her eyes began to adjust… she saw was true happiness was.
It started out as blank canvas, bare, exposed, and disenchanted.
As stroke and stroke of color flashed across it, it began to gather depth.
Wisps and slashes of the brush covered the fabric.
It was brought into a new existence, a new opportunity; It was painted.
One time we were doing a super sluth in science and it asked ‘likes to paint’ and i wrote my name, cause we never discuss or aything. At the end of our time to talk my teacher asked who liked to paint a my friends all said “Lena does!” and my teacher asked what kind of painti used. Good class (:
Her hopes and dreams all formed to be placed the same way. Everything she ever craved to have was forgotten… nothing was looked to be the same. Something so simple could be looked as art; perfection in the eyes of this little artist. Nothing would ever be the same for her.
i like to paint things because its fun and i like colors like purple. it reminds me of overalls and painters.. ahha i like paint. i also like spray painted. michael angelo paitned some famous painting in italy (i think??). i really like the brushes and things like that when i paint somehting. its fun times!!
I painted a picture of my mother when I was young. She didn’t resemble much of my mother but more of a square box. My mother’s personality is nothing of that of a square but yet, I still painted her as if she were. She painted a picture of me and i was beautiful. My mother is beautiful.
I read ‘A painted house’ by John Grisham. I hated it. It was so disappointing as i have been an avid fan for a long time. But the more i thought on the situation the more i realized that just because i didn’t like the plot, didn’t mean i couldn’t appreciate the writing still. Talent and taste are not the same thing.
the ivory face,
so beautifully painted that it seemed real.
the skin so flawless that i started talking to her.
however, as i spilled my heart out, she stayed still,
cold.
painted faces in the dark. deep shadowed eyes that shine, bottomless pits, reflecting your soul. deader than dead, am i dead or alive? i claw at your heart just to try to survive. painted faces in the dark, and their deep shadowed eyes shine as bottomless pits, reflecting your soul. but it won’t help: deader than dead.
I have three bookshelves. I painted them myself. They’re chocolate brown. But they weren’t supposed to be. In my head, the shelves and the outside were going to be a kaleidoscope of color, the wood a type of canvas where my mind could run wild. There were going to be swirls of color, faces that peeked out from behind corners, and designs that wound around book spines. Instead of a canvas, I now see three bookshelves, all painted brown.
i painted a picture of my pain with the blood that feel from my veins and in that moment i fancied myself an artist of the world. the color so vibrant covered everything i touched and i found myself a home inside that picture..
my room is painted blue, my school is painted white. my life is painted every color. red for the anger, orange for the vibrancy, yellow for the happiness, green for the sound of laughter, blue for being content, and purple for having fun. life is a party and i’m never growing up.
The flowers are painted red. We all wear masks, painted thinly upon our skin like the fake personalities we were inside. We cover our eyes so no one sees how we feel, cover our body so no one sees how we look. Cover so no one sees. The flowers are painted red.
I once painted my room tan. I really wanted to paint it a fun color like different shades of green, but my mom didn’t want some funky color in her house, so she won. Now it’s sort of modern with a little bit of peacefulness. I like it but I still would have enjoyed a little more pop of color in there. Now I have black picture frames and a blue comforter.
I once painted a picture that I didn’t like very much. I thought I could be an artist but this art class showed me it wasn’t my calling. Although I like to paint I know what I paint is not that great. How very sad that is, because I appreciate things that are painted. Walls, pictures, cars, etc. I like them all!!!
He sat painting the pictures. The colors and the thoughts flowed freely. He lived inside each one. They were all his creation, yet in many ways, he was the one being created. He was part of the cottages at the sea and the trees in the air. He was there, and everywhere. And yet he was god, painting the whole scene
I painted a rainbow with unicorns. They were happy and jumping up and down on the leprechauns that stood at the end, greedy with gold. Not to mention, they were green with envy over the homes that rich people had while they lived in patches of grass that had ants and stuff.
there was a man who painted the sky and it was beautiful. he painted it for his lovely wife who had died but he knew that if he painted the sky for her he would have her always because the sky is the world, she was his world and therefore if he painted the sky he would have the sky and the sky would be his and she would be his forever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever
Painted trees alongside a river. It is sunny. There are river animals living their lives to the full, unaware of the heavy city life that lingers in the back of the picture.
There is a family with a small boy. They are happy. Too happy.
The clowns painted faces, all too many of them, at the clown convention. One reached into the car in front, driven by a girl, and snatched the keys. I wound up the window so one couldn’t do it to us.
Her eyelids were the color of robin’s eggs, her lips a red not found in nature. They matched her nails. She was a beautiful horror show, a stunning demon. Most women would’ve looked tacky with their face painted so, but she looked mysterious, dangerous.
The museum. I’d never been much for museums. Life had been rough these last few weeks. As I strolled down the galleries, I had to stop suddenly to look at this particular painting. It was full of color and meaning, like it described my whole life up until now. It also seemed to tell my future, like it was telling me to cheer up, life will get better. And then I couldn’t help but smile for the first time in weeks, as I knew that things could only go uphill from there.
I painted the sky last night. With the stars shining, watching me. With the darkness caressing the breaking dawn. I painted the night as it left me alone. I painted that state of loneliness. But will a painting ever be alone? Nothing would ever be as alone as that night. As the paint. As the painter.
I usually doodle these days. In 8th grade my mom gave me a canvas and told me to paint something representing spring. It took me a long time but I eventually finished and thought it was nice. I wish I could paint more but I’ve been too lazy to do anything lately… I only doodle :(
can’t walls,windows can be painted…no they if you want to take out the sun i guess you can. trees can be painted in the winter apprently it keeps insects off them i used to think it was to keep them war. painted benches are annoying especially when you sit in them every day. i am so good at rambling!
The sky was painted with your words — they hung over me like guilt from a told secret. I kept trying to escape them, but the sky follows you everywhere: it creates your shadows, it blankets your dreams, it awakens your mind. I tired to run away, but your words were the clouds that drifted into stars that followed me everywhere.
Looking at the landscape in front of me, I decided to take it and implement it in my own creative form. I simply decided that it needed to be painted. There was no other means in which I could capture both the beauty in front of me and the emotions that it caused to boil forth from within me. Photography be damned–it needed to be painted.
The fence had only been painted a short time when Clyde leaned up against it to read his morning paper. As luck would have it, he never noticed until he finished the whole thing. When he left, his shirt was stuck, and it ripped right down the back.
Smile, or at least try beneath the new face you have caked onto your skin. I no longer know who you are, I cannot tell, you have created a new person with the mask you have painted and I must ask: was it worth it?
Painted all over your body were the traces of my kisses.
Painted all over the land the places where we kissed
Painted all over my lips the kisses that I placed
Painted all over the place is my love for you, in great big splashes of eternal color.
His words painted a picture in her mind. Or was he really painting these beautiful pictures that floated before her eyes? No, they couldn’t be real. Everything was a metaphor these days anyway. Not that she regretted this or anything – she just sometimes wished what happened to her could hold more meaning than a symbol of art waiting to be bought and sold.
she painted me
she knew every line and pimple
she knew where my neck ended and my chest began
she closed her eyes and painted me
from memory
from words unspoken
she painted
The picket fence that surrounded my house as a child was painted white, a spotless barrier separating my yard from the universe. The day I crossed it to play in my neighbor’s yard was the day my mother told me I was a grown up girl.
Everything changed in that one small moment. The colors… changed. From their normal dull shards sparked an exciting flare that nearly stunned Aura’s eyes. She blinked for a few standard seconds to comprehend what was even happening, as the seconds past and her eyes began to adjust… she finally saw was genuine happiness was.
Everything changed in that one small moment. The colors… changed. From their normal dull shards sparked an exciting flare that nearly stunned Aura’s eyes. She blinked for a few standard seconds to comprehend what was even happening, as the seconds past and her eyes began to adjust… she saw was true happiness was.
It started out as blank canvas, bare, exposed, and disenchanted.
As stroke and stroke of color flashed across it, it began to gather depth.
Wisps and slashes of the brush covered the fabric.
It was brought into a new existence, a new opportunity; It was painted.
One time we were doing a super sluth in science and it asked ‘likes to paint’ and i wrote my name, cause we never discuss or aything. At the end of our time to talk my teacher asked who liked to paint a my friends all said “Lena does!” and my teacher asked what kind of painti used. Good class (:
Her hopes and dreams all formed to be placed the same way. Everything she ever craved to have was forgotten… nothing was looked to be the same. Something so simple could be looked as art; perfection in the eyes of this little artist. Nothing would ever be the same for her.
i like to paint things because its fun and i like colors like purple. it reminds me of overalls and painters.. ahha i like paint. i also like spray painted. michael angelo paitned some famous painting in italy (i think??). i really like the brushes and things like that when i paint somehting. its fun times!!
I painted a picture of my mother when I was young. She didn’t resemble much of my mother but more of a square box. My mother’s personality is nothing of that of a square but yet, I still painted her as if she were. She painted a picture of me and i was beautiful. My mother is beautiful.
I read ‘A painted house’ by John Grisham. I hated it. It was so disappointing as i have been an avid fan for a long time. But the more i thought on the situation the more i realized that just because i didn’t like the plot, didn’t mean i couldn’t appreciate the writing still. Talent and taste are not the same thing.
colorful things
walls
kids
new
smelly
cans
paint brushes
the ivory face,
so beautifully painted that it seemed real.
the skin so flawless that i started talking to her.
however, as i spilled my heart out, she stayed still,
cold.
painted faces in the dark. deep shadowed eyes that shine, bottomless pits, reflecting your soul. deader than dead, am i dead or alive? i claw at your heart just to try to survive. painted faces in the dark, and their deep shadowed eyes shine as bottomless pits, reflecting your soul. but it won’t help: deader than dead.
I have three bookshelves. I painted them myself. They’re chocolate brown. But they weren’t supposed to be. In my head, the shelves and the outside were going to be a kaleidoscope of color, the wood a type of canvas where my mind could run wild. There were going to be swirls of color, faces that peeked out from behind corners, and designs that wound around book spines. Instead of a canvas, I now see three bookshelves, all painted brown.
i painted a picture of my pain with the blood that feel from my veins and in that moment i fancied myself an artist of the world. the color so vibrant covered everything i touched and i found myself a home inside that picture..
my room is painted blue, my school is painted white. my life is painted every color. red for the anger, orange for the vibrancy, yellow for the happiness, green for the sound of laughter, blue for being content, and purple for having fun. life is a party and i’m never growing up.
The flowers are painted red. We all wear masks, painted thinly upon our skin like the fake personalities we were inside. We cover our eyes so no one sees how we feel, cover our body so no one sees how we look. Cover so no one sees. The flowers are painted red.
I once painted my room tan. I really wanted to paint it a fun color like different shades of green, but my mom didn’t want some funky color in her house, so she won. Now it’s sort of modern with a little bit of peacefulness. I like it but I still would have enjoyed a little more pop of color in there. Now I have black picture frames and a blue comforter.
I painted many things. I painted pictures, I painted dreams. I painted words on a page and colors in your mind. I painted life, I painted rhyme.
I once painted a picture that I didn’t like very much. I thought I could be an artist but this art class showed me it wasn’t my calling. Although I like to paint I know what I paint is not that great. How very sad that is, because I appreciate things that are painted. Walls, pictures, cars, etc. I like them all!!!
He sat painting the pictures. The colors and the thoughts flowed freely. He lived inside each one. They were all his creation, yet in many ways, he was the one being created. He was part of the cottages at the sea and the trees in the air. He was there, and everywhere. And yet he was god, painting the whole scene
I painted a rainbow with unicorns. They were happy and jumping up and down on the leprechauns that stood at the end, greedy with gold. Not to mention, they were green with envy over the homes that rich people had while they lived in patches of grass that had ants and stuff.
it is the art of human mind ,i like it ,painted pictures.human mind beauty ir reflected on
there was a man who painted the sky and it was beautiful. he painted it for his lovely wife who had died but he knew that if he painted the sky for her he would have her always because the sky is the world, she was his world and therefore if he painted the sky he would have the sky and the sky would be his and she would be his forever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever
Painted trees alongside a river. It is sunny. There are river animals living their lives to the full, unaware of the heavy city life that lingers in the back of the picture.
There is a family with a small boy. They are happy. Too happy.
The clowns painted faces, all too many of them, at the clown convention. One reached into the car in front, driven by a girl, and snatched the keys. I wound up the window so one couldn’t do it to us.
the beauty is more covited than the beast inside the painting
Painted is past tense of paint. Paint is a verb used to describe the act of PAINTING something, adding/applying color to a surface, and or object.
Her eyelids were the color of robin’s eggs, her lips a red not found in nature. They matched her nails. She was a beautiful horror show, a stunning demon. Most women would’ve looked tacky with their face painted so, but she looked mysterious, dangerous.
The museum. I’d never been much for museums. Life had been rough these last few weeks. As I strolled down the galleries, I had to stop suddenly to look at this particular painting. It was full of color and meaning, like it described my whole life up until now. It also seemed to tell my future, like it was telling me to cheer up, life will get better. And then I couldn’t help but smile for the first time in weeks, as I knew that things could only go uphill from there.
I painted the sky last night. With the stars shining, watching me. With the darkness caressing the breaking dawn. I painted the night as it left me alone. I painted that state of loneliness. But will a painting ever be alone? Nothing would ever be as alone as that night. As the paint. As the painter.
I usually doodle these days. In 8th grade my mom gave me a canvas and told me to paint something representing spring. It took me a long time but I eventually finished and thought it was nice. I wish I could paint more but I’ve been too lazy to do anything lately… I only doodle :(
can’t walls,windows can be painted…no they if you want to take out the sun i guess you can. trees can be painted in the winter apprently it keeps insects off them i used to think it was to keep them war. painted benches are annoying especially when you sit in them every day. i am so good at rambling!
The sky was painted with your words — they hung over me like guilt from a told secret. I kept trying to escape them, but the sky follows you everywhere: it creates your shadows, it blankets your dreams, it awakens your mind. I tired to run away, but your words were the clouds that drifted into stars that followed me everywhere.
Looking at the landscape in front of me, I decided to take it and implement it in my own creative form. I simply decided that it needed to be painted. There was no other means in which I could capture both the beauty in front of me and the emotions that it caused to boil forth from within me. Photography be damned–it needed to be painted.
The fence had only been painted a short time when Clyde leaned up against it to read his morning paper. As luck would have it, he never noticed until he finished the whole thing. When he left, his shirt was stuck, and it ripped right down the back.
Smile, or at least try beneath the new face you have caked onto your skin. I no longer know who you are, I cannot tell, you have created a new person with the mask you have painted and I must ask: was it worth it?
Painted all over your body were the traces of my kisses.
Painted all over the land the places where we kissed
Painted all over my lips the kisses that I placed
Painted all over the place is my love for you, in great big splashes of eternal color.
W
His words painted a picture in her mind. Or was he really painting these beautiful pictures that floated before her eyes? No, they couldn’t be real. Everything was a metaphor these days anyway. Not that she regretted this or anything – she just sometimes wished what happened to her could hold more meaning than a symbol of art waiting to be bought and sold.
she painted me
she knew every line and pimple
she knew where my neck ended and my chest began
she closed her eyes and painted me
from memory
from words unspoken
she painted
The picket fence that surrounded my house as a child was painted white, a spotless barrier separating my yard from the universe. The day I crossed it to play in my neighbor’s yard was the day my mother told me I was a grown up girl.