Her mind is painted with all the colours of a bright and vivid imagination. A little bit of sunshine yellow for her ever present happiness, a splash of green for her lingering devious-streak. …A small tear of the deepest black to represent her constant fear of those who may not accept her differences. The smallest pinprick of midnight blue; tears, invisible to those around her, but oh so noticeable to those truly close to her soul.
She wore a painted face as she waited in the hotel lobby downstairs. It was 8 o’clock when she arrived. She waited and waited and waited. Finally, it was midnight. He was no where to be found. She cried, her painted face ran and the colors blended. It was that moment that she decided to never wait for a man again.
I painted a picture yesterday and it had the most beautiful colours and I loved it. It is now hanging in my room and every time I look at it, it reminds me of the time I just let go, and created something beautiful.
they are supposed to be painted
she swooned
disdained and perplexed the old artist stared at her.
she fell far from her perch and
he picked up the canvases he’d presented to her.
thus was his position.
His painted walls stood still black before the moonbeam. That night was like no other. Her kiss, her touch, her lip. His painted face while she said no to him, just too many times. His painted face on the wall. Only a memory.
her face was painted a thousand colors, shades of blue and black and green, meant to allure and captivate him. the thick coating hid the things truly beneath- the ugliness that lay within, masked by her paint; an outer shell of beauty.
I painted and painted and painted and yet seemed to go nowhere. The colors ran, ran right off the page. Pooling at my feet. They refused to obey. Asking nicely didn’t do any good. They just did as they pleased, without a thought or care about what I, the artist, might want.
What thing in this world isn’t painted? Physically and metaphorically, everywhere we turn, its what our eyes see. Colors have been plastered across the scape of our minds, in the spectrum of actual pigments and the swathes of emotional light that have brought life to the world the blind can only dream about.
i painted a beautiful picture of the sea- the waves were strumming the shoreline like the strings of a guitar strum the most delicate of tunes. I painted a picture of the sand- the grains were whisked in waves like clouds in the sky.
Every time I do this, it gives me painted. Does it know any other words? It’s hard to do this without thinking when you are pretty sure it only knows one word. I’ve had “painted” before, so how do I NOT think about it?
I like to paint about bananas that dance on the side of the road for crack money. They then buy the crack then get arrested for five months then is sent to rehab. The banana then kills everyone in the rehab clinic and continues to dance on the side of the road. I like corn.
I remember the wall that we painted with metallic glazes. It was one of those projects that turn out better than you think it will. It was a showpiece. Now someone else owns the house and I am afraid that it has been painted over. Artwork forever doomed to the adorn the background of snapshots only.
Once I painted a picture about a yellow fish that swam to alabama with a monkey friend named carlito who does drugs on the side with an elephant whose name is also carlito but he doesnt go out much anymore bcause his house burned down in the new orleans flood and he died. did you know bass is delicious?
I painted the walls of the clubhouse yesterday, nice, long, even strokes, the sun beating down on me, tanning my skin, probably planting the early seeds of skin cancer deep within my body. The sweat dripping down my forehead into my eyes, momentarily blinding me.
On her left foot, Eliza had all shades of pink. Her right foot sported purples and mauves. Her left hand bore every shade of green she could find while her right had coppers and other earth tones. She painted each one of her twenty nails a different color. The twenty first? She left that one clear.
i painted
i wish i painted better
i don’t know what i’m doing
i’m just following the directions and writing
when i think of painted i think of painting i think of how i want to be
floral and boho
i want to have style and be cool.
Tainted. I once saw a girl who had been painted on a wall so perfectly that she realized it wasn’t her at all. We all did. We envied her anyway. We envied the image pained on a pedestal. Unattainable. We purged and forged and reached so high and dug ourselves into trenches lower than hell really. Just to feel like the painted girl in a tower, ivory or something. Right?
The shed was the wrong colour, so I hitched a ride out of the province. Funny how time gets away from you. I wonder what my children are like. Their hopes and dreams. What kind of adults they turned out to be. I could call them, but they never pick up.
The walls were painted blue bleeding over greens and yellows, like a kindergartner’s fingerpaint gone wrong. It looked like it had been started again and again and again: mood swings in pigment on a wall.
One day I painted a picture of a mother who was dying. She said she didn’t like to dream so I let her sleep instead of cry. She let out a sigh and said “why ever are you drawing me in my bed?” I answered slowly with a look of despair. I don’t know, I thought. I really don’t know. She continued to look like a fairy as I quickly drew her neck. Suddenly a little boy flew in on his magic carpet declaring that we hurry up and visit China someday. Time’s a wastin’ he told us and flew away.
Today i painted a hand on my wall. it represented my childhood somehow. it was full of color. it was fun. for a second there, i felt free. free from the world. free from everything that kept me from being me.
I wanted to paint a beautiful piece of art. i decided to paint a masterpiece. the masterpiece i created had nothing to do with brushes or a canvas. i wanted to paint a life, a life worth living and remembering.
I already had the word painted. I wish I could have another word, but i’m not sure if that is even possible. Painted. Tainted. I really don’t know what else to say except for, this is an awesome site, and an awesome exercise.
It was painted like a song. Dripping languidly to the ground to spread through out the earth. It sang of harmony in a thousand colors and danced naked through the cement walls to touch the hearts of everyone who saw.
I painted a house once. It was a deep red colour. It reminded me of spring, the river flowing, the birds singing. It was a beautiful moment. I can see the trees blowing in the wind, without a care in the world. Don’t you wish you were a tree? Just stand there all day and not worry about a thing, you get visitors all the time. Lightning is bad, I suppose. But that’s about it.
I love to paint. I never really think about it when I do it. Mainly I just like to mix the colors together. I remember when I was little and they had a lesson on mixing the colors together to make a different color.. well, I didn’t pick up on it very well. I’m still experimenting and I’m 15 years old. It doesn’t seem that old to be concerned about it, but I’ve been painting for so long.
I painted my nails crackled last night. Cracked like my heart. I’m reminded of a song I liked (but hid from my friends) in the seventh grade. Potential Breakup Song by Aly and AJ. He forgot my birthday, that’s why. I’m not even sure he forgot. He just didn’t care.
Highly ironic, considering I saw him give a speech on how people need to care more. He’s the indifferent one.
Mom painted Mr. Parker’s house today. Once I painted the outside of a house. Painting is fun and my sister is really good at painting pictures. Have you ever painted a picture? Who reads these paragraphs? Who thinks of these words? I like hardware stores where they have all those paint strips with all the different colors, those are so fun to look at. It makes me imagine my future house.
i need to paint my garage. i think my friend is supposed to come help me paint something interesting on it but i was never good at art so im kinda worried its gonna look stupid and like some 4 year old did it instead of a couple 20 year olds. i wish i had more drawing talent i was always jealous of people who drew perfectly. i cant even color in the lines sometimes. but i really hope it turns out well. im thinking a collage of all our good memories from the past couple years.
Her mind is painted with all the colours of a bright and vivid imagination. A little bit of sunshine yellow for her ever present happiness, a splash of green for her lingering devious-streak. …A small tear of the deepest black to represent her constant fear of those who may not accept her differences. The smallest pinprick of midnight blue; tears, invisible to those around her, but oh so noticeable to those truly close to her soul.
She wore a painted face as she waited in the hotel lobby downstairs. It was 8 o’clock when she arrived. She waited and waited and waited. Finally, it was midnight. He was no where to be found. She cried, her painted face ran and the colors blended. It was that moment that she decided to never wait for a man again.
I painted a picture yesterday and it had the most beautiful colours and I loved it. It is now hanging in my room and every time I look at it, it reminds me of the time I just let go, and created something beautiful.
they are supposed to be painted
she swooned
disdained and perplexed the old artist stared at her.
she fell far from her perch and
he picked up the canvases he’d presented to her.
thus was his position.
His painted walls stood still black before the moonbeam. That night was like no other. Her kiss, her touch, her lip. His painted face while she said no to him, just too many times. His painted face on the wall. Only a memory.
colors
life
shapes
lines
brush
pretty
art
her face was painted a thousand colors, shades of blue and black and green, meant to allure and captivate him. the thick coating hid the things truly beneath- the ugliness that lay within, masked by her paint; an outer shell of beauty.
paint a fence like huck fucking fin, don’t paint it white..paint it black.
I painted and painted and painted and yet seemed to go nowhere. The colors ran, ran right off the page. Pooling at my feet. They refused to obey. Asking nicely didn’t do any good. They just did as they pleased, without a thought or care about what I, the artist, might want.
What thing in this world isn’t painted? Physically and metaphorically, everywhere we turn, its what our eyes see. Colors have been plastered across the scape of our minds, in the spectrum of actual pigments and the swathes of emotional light that have brought life to the world the blind can only dream about.
I painted a picture yesterday and it was beautiful. It took under fifteen minutes. I made a mess. Life is good though.
i painted a beautiful picture of the sea- the waves were strumming the shoreline like the strings of a guitar strum the most delicate of tunes. I painted a picture of the sand- the grains were whisked in waves like clouds in the sky.
Every time I do this, it gives me painted. Does it know any other words? It’s hard to do this without thinking when you are pretty sure it only knows one word. I’ve had “painted” before, so how do I NOT think about it?
lady. butterfly. caterpillar. leaf. tree. earth-sky. Gaia. Zeus. Lightning. Thunder. Storm. Dark. Night. Moon. Palour. Fair. Lady.
I like to paint about bananas that dance on the side of the road for crack money. They then buy the crack then get arrested for five months then is sent to rehab. The banana then kills everyone in the rehab clinic and continues to dance on the side of the road. I like corn.
I painted the light on the dark halls of my mind to behold all that was once hidden in its dark recesses.
I remember the wall that we painted with metallic glazes. It was one of those projects that turn out better than you think it will. It was a showpiece. Now someone else owns the house and I am afraid that it has been painted over. Artwork forever doomed to the adorn the background of snapshots only.
Once I painted a picture about a yellow fish that swam to alabama with a monkey friend named carlito who does drugs on the side with an elephant whose name is also carlito but he doesnt go out much anymore bcause his house burned down in the new orleans flood and he died. did you know bass is delicious?
I painted the walls of the clubhouse yesterday, nice, long, even strokes, the sun beating down on me, tanning my skin, probably planting the early seeds of skin cancer deep within my body. The sweat dripping down my forehead into my eyes, momentarily blinding me.
On her left foot, Eliza had all shades of pink. Her right foot sported purples and mauves. Her left hand bore every shade of green she could find while her right had coppers and other earth tones. She painted each one of her twenty nails a different color. The twenty first? She left that one clear.
i painted
i wish i painted better
i don’t know what i’m doing
i’m just following the directions and writing
when i think of painted i think of painting i think of how i want to be
floral and boho
i want to have style and be cool.
Late nights; fingernails, cut short and lacquered gold. Pretty girl, pretty soul. You’d never hurt anyone, not with those hands.
Tainted. I once saw a girl who had been painted on a wall so perfectly that she realized it wasn’t her at all. We all did. We envied her anyway. We envied the image pained on a pedestal. Unattainable. We purged and forged and reached so high and dug ourselves into trenches lower than hell really. Just to feel like the painted girl in a tower, ivory or something. Right?
The shed was the wrong colour, so I hitched a ride out of the province. Funny how time gets away from you. I wonder what my children are like. Their hopes and dreams. What kind of adults they turned out to be. I could call them, but they never pick up.
this room, and i love it. who cares if it’s perfect? i’m not. why would my walls be?
let me be.
The walls were painted blue bleeding over greens and yellows, like a kindergartner’s fingerpaint gone wrong. It looked like it had been started again and again and again: mood swings in pigment on a wall.
One day I painted a picture of a mother who was dying. She said she didn’t like to dream so I let her sleep instead of cry. She let out a sigh and said “why ever are you drawing me in my bed?” I answered slowly with a look of despair. I don’t know, I thought. I really don’t know. She continued to look like a fairy as I quickly drew her neck. Suddenly a little boy flew in on his magic carpet declaring that we hurry up and visit China someday. Time’s a wastin’ he told us and flew away.
Today i painted a hand on my wall. it represented my childhood somehow. it was full of color. it was fun. for a second there, i felt free. free from the world. free from everything that kept me from being me.
and once again, I have the word painted. I’m guessing there’s only one word per day. That’s cool, I guess.
I wanted to paint a beautiful piece of art. i decided to paint a masterpiece. the masterpiece i created had nothing to do with brushes or a canvas. i wanted to paint a life, a life worth living and remembering.
I already had the word painted. I wish I could have another word, but i’m not sure if that is even possible. Painted. Tainted. I really don’t know what else to say except for, this is an awesome site, and an awesome exercise.
It was painted like a song. Dripping languidly to the ground to spread through out the earth. It sang of harmony in a thousand colors and danced naked through the cement walls to touch the hearts of everyone who saw.
It was painted like a song. Dripping languidly down to connect to the earth and spread through the world.
I painted a house once. It was a deep red colour. It reminded me of spring, the river flowing, the birds singing. It was a beautiful moment. I can see the trees blowing in the wind, without a care in the world. Don’t you wish you were a tree? Just stand there all day and not worry about a thing, you get visitors all the time. Lightning is bad, I suppose. But that’s about it.
I love to paint. I never really think about it when I do it. Mainly I just like to mix the colors together. I remember when I was little and they had a lesson on mixing the colors together to make a different color.. well, I didn’t pick up on it very well. I’m still experimenting and I’m 15 years old. It doesn’t seem that old to be concerned about it, but I’ve been painting for so long.
I painted my nails crackled last night. Cracked like my heart. I’m reminded of a song I liked (but hid from my friends) in the seventh grade. Potential Breakup Song by Aly and AJ. He forgot my birthday, that’s why. I’m not even sure he forgot. He just didn’t care.
Highly ironic, considering I saw him give a speech on how people need to care more. He’s the indifferent one.
Mom painted Mr. Parker’s house today. Once I painted the outside of a house. Painting is fun and my sister is really good at painting pictures. Have you ever painted a picture? Who reads these paragraphs? Who thinks of these words? I like hardware stores where they have all those paint strips with all the different colors, those are so fun to look at. It makes me imagine my future house.
he painted the room such beautiful colors, but it didn’t make her any less unhappy.
Her writing desk was painted a cloudy blue, like all those years and powder lead had taken away from it it’s usual baby room shine.
i need to paint my garage. i think my friend is supposed to come help me paint something interesting on it but i was never good at art so im kinda worried its gonna look stupid and like some 4 year old did it instead of a couple 20 year olds. i wish i had more drawing talent i was always jealous of people who drew perfectly. i cant even color in the lines sometimes. but i really hope it turns out well. im thinking a collage of all our good memories from the past couple years.