The scene covered uo my eyes with amusement as well as satisfaction. The performance had been exquisite and the results were well shown in my attitude towards it. The scence fulfilled my desire, and it came upon my imagination to photograph the occured.
The current was drawing, allowing everyone to see what was going on on the stage. A large scene was unfolding, showing the wife crying over the loss of her husband. It tore her apart, he was her rock and losing him felt like a hurricane had hit. She didn’t know what she’d do without him. But then there was a knock on the door.
we’d make a scene, baby
people would turn their heads
and whisper
and tell me that i’m not worthy
for your eyes
for your attention
for you
they’d wear their mouths off with
all that talk
all that good, dirty
gossip
we’d make a scene together
but if you think that’s
why I love you
then you’re wrong
because they
can stare all they want
they can glare
with the fire of a thousand
glowing suns
and strike us with poisonous
words
but in the end
you know i’ll always be there
because I love
you.
The scene changes to Marilyn Monroe. She wiggles across to Clark Gable in silver heels. Clark cocks one eye “Just play the part honey. You ooze charm by just walking into a room. Everybody notices you”. “Sure Clark, I will do charm with a capital C and I won’t forget my lines”
It was a scene I never imagined. Instead of the wild animals I expected to see in the zoo, there were thousands of exotic insects. The scene was pure chaos–dragonflies off all shapes and colors flew through the air; lady bugs, green ones, were perched in all the trees. The cages that should have held lions, tigers and bears, were filled with huge blue and red butterflies, honey bees the size of walruses and loads of colorful moths in every shape and size.
A scene can mean several things. It can be a landscape or describle the amiance of a particular environment. But for sctors and producers, it could mean a short piece of action time in a play or movie. The word scene can mean lots of different things to lots of different people.
All these girls expressing themselves through colour and light of life. They are different and yet told over and over they are the same. This makeup that drips down across their face to their eyes is a mark of their difference. They just want to be individual, and yet, perhaps they really are not. Thats the thing about wanting to be different. You never really are.
It’s a scene. It’s a wonderful scene, a beautiful scene. But where is it now? Where is the wonderful scene god has created? It was destroyed! Where are the trees in the forest? I can’t find any mountains any more. Where are the green grass? But what do the government call these? Destroying? Destruction? No, they call it a progress.
i had to read Hamlet last week. lord love a duck. i had the text version in my coursebook, the text with plain text version on my aunt’s table, the Merriam-webster website open as well as the spark notes site and a separate notebook for my own thoughts and it took me two days to actually be able to understand it and write about it. it’s not a hard plot, it’s hard dialogue.
Forever that scene of some big old skip. It swallows what we don’t or do need. Poems floating west. I assume, below the surface. Blood pressure too high, blood sugar. Still awake like a hooting owl. The hostel was once my home. We cling on to stuff and one day, puff, puff.
blue hair pink hair spunky girls with lots of makeup down their faces out to their ears funky clothes bright rainbows different the same white hair streaky hair its smooth its cared for and straightened hated but loved colourful different end lots and and lots of colour its everywhere .
The scene before me makes me crumple to my knees: there are fires everywhere, and corpses litter the street. I start to run away, but I almost trip over a body. I look down, and it is my best friend.
I thought it would be fun, but I was wrong. It was gross, sloppy, and the way his teeth kept pulling and biting at my lips hurt. I couldn’t help hoping that this kissing scene would be a single take.
It drags on and on, like an endless scene from a movie. I thought it was going to be FUN, but I was wrong. It was sloppy, awkward, and the way his teeth kept biting and plulling at my lips hurt. tH
It was a scene I wasn’t likely to forget. You know that part in a movie just before the couple kisses? It was kind of like that, but in the moment it wasn’t not really. Do you know what I am saying?
Still not believing her property was dumped, thrown out, too many tears, replaying the scene over and over again, Nobody really cares. Move on. I will never move on, My own private hell. What a mess in a civilised world.
the best thing in this dangerous scene is the women. they of course are dangerous too, but in a way you like that. You like that because never in your life have you felt s out of control and there is someone to control it. Her name is maria. Her name is Samantha. Her name is marie. It doesn’t matter because the time with her will be the crazy fun time you have wanted.
her words are painting a scene
i’m a bystander watching the actions unfold
i can hear the people screaming and i can do nothing
i can smell the fire, i can smell burning
i can see flashing lights and reds and oranges dancing across my eyes
and when she’s finished the scene has ended
and i’m left with an uneasy kind of feeling
The crime scene was packed with people. It was difficult for me to push to the front, but in the end, I got there. Maybe sometimes it pays to be 6 foot 5 and 180 lbs. But when I got to the front of the crowd, I wished I had just stayed in the back.
Detective Frolo pauses, his fingers lingering over a piece of evidence. He sees the body. He finally sees the body.
His eyes stay fixed, his expression blank as he walks over, pressing fingertips to the back of a cold hand. No motion. No warmth. His gray eyes squeeze closed.
He closes his brother’s eyes and says a deep prayer.
I happen to like movies and visual media. Yet when I think of scenes, I think of writing. Like a scene is a chapter and these are the events that transpire in the scene.
The lights and the music. The people, the clothes. Everything is perfect. Has to be perfect to make this one last scene. The scene that will change history. If it’s not right, it will change everything.
The scene is very important in popular places, like in Hollywood. It’s always very important to look good or be at the “scene”. Lots of celebrities always want to look good and dress up so they can be at the scene.
There is was. Tranquil, serene. Just as her grandmother had described. She closed her eyes and breathed in the air. There is was. The smell she had described. Everything was perfect. Except that he grandmother wasn’t there.
She felt them. The eyes, dozens and dozens of eyes watching her as she stepped out into the spotlight. The camera, focusing on her and only on her. The breathing in the room seemed to still as she threw her shoulders back, doing what she did best–
Pretend.
Pretend. He was her lover, chiseled and gorgeous and formed by others’ hands, and she faced him, cupped his face.
The scene starts out with a cat, leaping from a tall building. A suicidal cat, yo. Most cats aren’t suicidal, but this cat is extraordinairy. Not like other cats.
I was doing this scene for, a act and I was wondering why I was doing this.
I mean I never even liked to act or anything.
Including if it was cinderella.
The first scene. The last scene. What matters is what happens in between. Will you look back during your last scene and remember who you were in the first? Probably not. But I hope you remember what transpired and brought your there before the curtain comes down.
Stay calm! Control yourself. You can’t let on that you’re upset. You can’t pour out your overwhelming emotions like water out of a jug. You create a scene?!? It would be unheard of and so not acceptable.
The scene covered uo my eyes with amusement as well as satisfaction. The performance had been exquisite and the results were well shown in my attitude towards it. The scence fulfilled my desire, and it came upon my imagination to photograph the occured.
The current was drawing, allowing everyone to see what was going on on the stage. A large scene was unfolding, showing the wife crying over the loss of her husband. It tore her apart, he was her rock and losing him felt like a hurricane had hit. She didn’t know what she’d do without him. But then there was a knock on the door.
“I don’t want to make a scene,” the girl said, “but why the HELL are you here?!”
The boy looked uncomfortable as he said, “because you asked me to come. You called me last night, remember?”
She didn’t remember much from last night except way too many mojitos. That’ll teach her to play catch when she turns up late to a party.
we’d make a scene, baby
people would turn their heads
and whisper
and tell me that i’m not worthy
for your eyes
for your attention
for you
they’d wear their mouths off with
all that talk
all that good, dirty
gossip
we’d make a scene together
but if you think that’s
why I love you
then you’re wrong
because they
can stare all they want
they can glare
with the fire of a thousand
glowing suns
and strike us with poisonous
words
but in the end
you know i’ll always be there
because I love
you.
The scene flashed in her mind like lighting, electrifying her to the core of who she was.
The scene changes to Marilyn Monroe. She wiggles across to Clark Gable in silver heels. Clark cocks one eye “Just play the part honey. You ooze charm by just walking into a room. Everybody notices you”. “Sure Clark, I will do charm with a capital C and I won’t forget my lines”
It was a scene I never imagined. Instead of the wild animals I expected to see in the zoo, there were thousands of exotic insects. The scene was pure chaos–dragonflies off all shapes and colors flew through the air; lady bugs, green ones, were perched in all the trees. The cages that should have held lions, tigers and bears, were filled with huge blue and red butterflies, honey bees the size of walruses and loads of colorful moths in every shape and size.
A scene can mean several things. It can be a landscape or describle the amiance of a particular environment. But for sctors and producers, it could mean a short piece of action time in a play or movie. The word scene can mean lots of different things to lots of different people.
All these girls expressing themselves through colour and light of life. They are different and yet told over and over they are the same. This makeup that drips down across their face to their eyes is a mark of their difference. They just want to be individual, and yet, perhaps they really are not. Thats the thing about wanting to be different. You never really are.
It’s a scene. It’s a wonderful scene, a beautiful scene. But where is it now? Where is the wonderful scene god has created? It was destroyed! Where are the trees in the forest? I can’t find any mountains any more. Where are the green grass? But what do the government call these? Destroying? Destruction? No, they call it a progress.
i had to read Hamlet last week. lord love a duck. i had the text version in my coursebook, the text with plain text version on my aunt’s table, the Merriam-webster website open as well as the spark notes site and a separate notebook for my own thoughts and it took me two days to actually be able to understand it and write about it. it’s not a hard plot, it’s hard dialogue.
Forever that scene of some big old skip. It swallows what we don’t or do need. Poems floating west. I assume, below the surface. Blood pressure too high, blood sugar. Still awake like a hooting owl. The hostel was once my home. We cling on to stuff and one day, puff, puff.
blue hair pink hair spunky girls with lots of makeup down their faces out to their ears funky clothes bright rainbows different the same white hair streaky hair its smooth its cared for and straightened hated but loved colourful different end lots and and lots of colour its everywhere .
The scene before me makes me crumple to my knees: there are fires everywhere, and corpses litter the street. I start to run away, but I almost trip over a body. I look down, and it is my best friend.
I thought it would be fun, but I was wrong. It was gross, sloppy, and the way his teeth kept pulling and biting at my lips hurt. I couldn’t help hoping that this kissing scene would be a single take.
It drags on and on, like an endless scene from a movie. I thought it was going to be FUN, but I was wrong. It was sloppy, awkward, and the way his teeth kept biting and plulling at my lips hurt. tH
blackout, on this scene of my life.
curtain up on something new.
It was a scene I wasn’t likely to forget. You know that part in a movie just before the couple kisses? It was kind of like that, but in the moment it wasn’t not really. Do you know what I am saying?
Still not believing her property was dumped, thrown out, too many tears, replaying the scene over and over again, Nobody really cares. Move on. I will never move on, My own private hell. What a mess in a civilised world.
It’s just a fucking scene
In the movie that is my life
One scene
That’s it
So why is it so hard
For me to let it go
To get to the next one
To stop
people who eat from same plate
the best thing in this dangerous scene is the women. they of course are dangerous too, but in a way you like that. You like that because never in your life have you felt s out of control and there is someone to control it. Her name is maria. Her name is Samantha. Her name is marie. It doesn’t matter because the time with her will be the crazy fun time you have wanted.
her words are painting a scene
i’m a bystander watching the actions unfold
i can hear the people screaming and i can do nothing
i can smell the fire, i can smell burning
i can see flashing lights and reds and oranges dancing across my eyes
and when she’s finished the scene has ended
and i’m left with an uneasy kind of feeling
A mountain scene. Green spruce trees, mossy rocks. Chipmunks running across the path. Dead needles underfoot. Fresh spicy air. Quiet.
The crime scene was packed with people. It was difficult for me to push to the front, but in the end, I got there. Maybe sometimes it pays to be 6 foot 5 and 180 lbs. But when I got to the front of the crowd, I wished I had just stayed in the back.
Detective Frolo pauses, his fingers lingering over a piece of evidence. He sees the body. He finally sees the body.
His eyes stay fixed, his expression blank as he walks over, pressing fingertips to the back of a cold hand. No motion. No warmth. His gray eyes squeeze closed.
He closes his brother’s eyes and says a deep prayer.
I happen to like movies and visual media. Yet when I think of scenes, I think of writing. Like a scene is a chapter and these are the events that transpire in the scene.
The lights and the music. The people, the clothes. Everything is perfect. Has to be perfect to make this one last scene. The scene that will change history. If it’s not right, it will change everything.
The scene is very important in popular places, like in Hollywood. It’s always very important to look good or be at the “scene”. Lots of celebrities always want to look good and dress up so they can be at the scene.
There is was. Tranquil, serene. Just as her grandmother had described. She closed her eyes and breathed in the air. There is was. The smell she had described. Everything was perfect. Except that he grandmother wasn’t there.
i had a terrible scene phase as a teen :o
i looked awful. teased hair, coon eyeliner, frosty lips, ugly clothes.
the WHOLE FUCKING 9
It was a fantastic day. Except for one thing. Samuel. A more ignorant begin has yet to be discovered.
After the director finishes sharing his vision for the scene we move to our places, shooting barely veiled glares at each other.
“Lights, camera, action!”
She felt them. The eyes, dozens and dozens of eyes watching her as she stepped out into the spotlight. The camera, focusing on her and only on her. The breathing in the room seemed to still as she threw her shoulders back, doing what she did best–
Pretend.
Pretend. He was her lover, chiseled and gorgeous and formed by others’ hands, and she faced him, cupped his face.
I looked at the scene before my eyes, this is the reason I would leave this land, the only home I had known. I would never return.
The scene starts out with a cat, leaping from a tall building. A suicidal cat, yo. Most cats aren’t suicidal, but this cat is extraordinairy. Not like other cats.
party
rock
anthem
martin
fucking love you
nana
i’m gonna write a poem for you
the end.
.
.
THE REAL END.
I was doing this scene for, a act and I was wondering why I was doing this.
I mean I never even liked to act or anything.
Including if it was cinderella.
The first scene. The last scene. What matters is what happens in between. Will you look back during your last scene and remember who you were in the first? Probably not. But I hope you remember what transpired and brought your there before the curtain comes down.
The scene was set. The cast was ready. Bang! Bang! There was a sound so loud and scarey we didn’t know what had happened or what to do.
Stay calm! Control yourself. You can’t let on that you’re upset. You can’t pour out your overwhelming emotions like water out of a jug. You create a scene?!? It would be unheard of and so not acceptable.