The mascara was smudged on her face. But nobody was paying attention to her ruined make up when she pulled the gun from her purse and pointed it at her head.
I smudge the make-up on my face as the tears fall down my pretty face. I can be a better person, friend, wife, I know I can, and I’m gonna start.. now. Not later, because that’s never benefited me. I know that the only progress I can experience will result from immediate action.
It’s crazy to believe how everyone is just a small speck on Earth. That’s it nothing more. It’s as if we’re insignificant. As if we’re just pesky smudges marring the beautiful land.
I brought my wet thumb to his cheek and rubbed the black smudge beneath his eye. His delicate freckles began to show through the dark paint and his hazel green eyes watched intently as I worked at the stain-like substance. When it was mostly gone, I sat back and admired my work. He just stared back me with intensity no other human could match.
How could she do this to me! I specifically told her no smudges! But look they’re everywhere! All over my car windows! She just had to stick those little grubby fingers all over my windows. I can’t wait to tell mom, know little miss perfect will get a talking to, finally.
You could say I’m being a little harsh but for a ten year old this is just unexceptable.
He smudged the cracked photograph, it had aged with plenty of time, but he did not care. He stared into, letting it embrace him like he embraced it. His pet dog had been the most beautiful animal he had ever known.
A smudge of blood, and a hint of dirt on his face, smeared with tears, gave him a look that simply /screamed/ that he was once again drunk, and suicidal. The wasteland did that to a person, and he was one of those weak enough to drown in alcoholism and shame over the past. It didn’t matter, but the blood did – his own blood, taken from his choking throat.
He smudged the pages of the Black Flag novelization he held just read, holding it in his hands in a death grip. Without a doubt, it had been far better than the Pig Destroyer novelization he had read. In fact, the Black Flag one had been far more informative.
She left hours ago, the only witness to her ever having been here is the smudge of lipstick on the champagne flute and the self-doubt she left in my mind…
i smudged my eyeliner. i usually don’t wear makeup. but, i feel like it today. why? why do girls just have this feeling to look a certain way? something, that i may never understand… i get in my beat up neon and drive to school. i get these weird glances from people in my grade whom i don’t talk to. but, i keep walking anyways. my friend tells me i look good, thank God someone has a decent opinion around here. we go to class, and get through the day to lunch. a pack of plastic girls come up to our table. and ask me if i’m going emo. i don’t reply because it’s just best not to. we finish lunch and the rest of the afternoon. when i reach my last class, i am tormented by a group of boys. the bell finally rings and i get up to leave, when a boy named charlie approaches me. he says don’t listen to them, you’re beautiful. i say thank you and run off, amazed at his compliment. i go home and take my makeup off, thinking about everything that has happened today, how everyone treated me. i learn that i need to look a different way to please the people around me. not just please the people who care about me, or myself for that matter. why is the world this way? why do people treat other people for the way they look? a question i may get the answer for.
There was a smudge on the window. A half print from her hand, pulling down. The rain outside battered against the glass, its harsh tattoo filling the room from the open window. She sat on her bed and watched as the water slid down. The room is dark and she can see her face reflected. The rain casting shadows, small moving patterns across her features. She tilts her head. Her reflection mimics her and she wonders what it’s like. On the other side of the glass. In a world of water, falling around her. She wonders if it’s gentle – caresses and light, whispers of the breeze touching her skin and sweetly playing through her hair. It’d be cold. She likes the cold. Prefers it. It has a comfort for her, like watching snow on mountains. She wonders if it’d be like floating in the sea. Being handed one way, then another, just following the movement.
You just have to trust me, that deep down in places where I do not show the light, I have a solid core that holds fast against these currents, tries so very hard to do what is best for you, for me, for the gaps inbetween that hang and smudge my eyeliner when I dare entertain the thought that I will never meet another person like you.
It couldn’t be erased, no matter how hard she tried. This memory taunted her like a smudge on a painting. It nagged and mocked her until she tried to escape from her mistake. But they knew. Everyone knew. She couldn’t change that.
There was a smudge in the corner of her glasses. As she moved to wipe it away, she noticed it was moving. She turned to see that it was not in fact a smudge, but a distant rainstorm, in constant motion, far off in the distance. Nothing is ever as small or meaningless as it might seem, she thought to herself. She removed her glasses and continued on her way, the lenses of no use to her now that she saw things with new eyes.
She groaned. Again. For the third time in this minute. No matter how hard she tried or concentrated, she could not stop smudging her pen marks. She wet her finger with her saliva and rubbed on the ink stain. The paper’s fibers broke off and littered the desk’s surface.
She spent hours on the painting, pouring in all of her soul and all of her attention. And it was all ruined, by that one little smudge. She couldn’t appreciate the painting without perfection – and likewise, she couldn’t appreciate the salvation right before her.
“Fucking damn it,” Grantaire muttered. He supposed it was probably a bit fitting, the smudge. It blurred his self-portrait’s eyes, the way he supposed alcohol probably did 85% of the time. He frowned all the same. Wasn’t a man allowed to at least pretend he didn’t know what he was?
The brown looks more vibrant than it should be on her pale face. He can’t find it in him to wipe it off, the evidence of childhood work on mud-homes outdoors.
I think of mud. someone wiping mud against a clean car. like, little kids playing with mud. and the dad getting on to them for playing with it. Then the dad having to clean the car afterwards.
The smudge on the glass was the only thing keeping me sane. I know it seemed silly, but considering everthing else thats been happening, it seemes perfectly logicle to me
I dropped my notebook into the puddle and saw all my ink run and smudge. All those words, all those hours, my dreams, my ideas, just gone in that instant. I could have cried, yet somehow I felt liberated by my accid
I don’t know what to write because my mind is covered in poison.smudge.My mind is covered in poision and I don’t know what to do with myself.I don’t want to die but I can’t live like this
The black stain rips a calloused claw against my grimy face the visage that reveals my every emotion. The spread and mushed the finger pressing against blurring the fine point of life.
black spot on the nose of a young boy. He tries in vain to wipe it off but it stays there in the centre of his face. The more he rubs it, the worse it gets. Dirty, sweaty and grimy, it is imbedded on his being.
Nothing could remove it from the glass, it was as if her sin had been stained onto it, nothing more than a moment but there it was to remain forever. He feared for what her husband would think, but at the same time, was thrilled at the thought that he would find out.
the smudge on his nose was the most irksome thing about him. He seemed to completely ignore it, almost as if it wasn’t there. Which it was of course. And that was the one part he refused to fix.
a smudge is something made by discarding the excess, something unwanted and unclean. It is not noticed unless it is to be disliked, or wiped away. An inconsequential thing which can be easily wiped away, on most occasions.
Don’t think. My hands are shaking. What’s a smudge? Can I type in the time allotted? Will my words make sense as I try and fumble with the letters that I see in black and white, crisp and bold. I know what it means, but what can it equivocate to? Am I spelling everything right? This is a mess, and all my thoughts mirror the pressure involved in having to write about a smudge in less than a minute.
It’s a mess on the page. Grey, filthy, a smear. A tear drop is the cause for the interruption between the fine lines and the pronounced letters in black and white dictating the story that she wished to be told. Her tear was the reason that from crisp and perfect it became an ugly smudge, a blur.
There was a smudge on Chris’ t-shirt. A red smudge. Usually, it would be a food stain or a stain from the juice he had been drinking at school. This time, it was something much more sinister. It was blood. His dad had been drinking again, that was obvious to see. Gordie frowned.
The expression on her face was almost like mud smudged across her lips and chin. Her nostrils flared. She looked dirty. Felt dirty. She was like an angry, sick mongrel baying for nourishment. She felt starved. Emaciated. Weak.
“Stop sneering at me,” the stranger snarled, trying to be intimidating.
But she wasn’t intimidated. Not anymore, she told herself. As her hands curled into fists.
The ink never dries, not completely. The book could be a thousand years old, and when the warmth of life touches it, it bleeds, it runs, it is remade. Recast in the muddiness of reality, a far cry from the crystallization of a work no one reads, no one cares for, and that never gets that touch.
have you ever wanted to run away so badly you never really thought it through. just wanted to go, even if you had no idea how you were going to get money or food or even a place to sleep. you just wanted to go and never come back because any place is better than here. that’s how i’ve felt my entire life.
as i sat on the bus in the pouring rain, i realized this.
i was just a smudge in a bus window. easily wiped away and forgotten.
The mascara was smudged on her face. But nobody was paying attention to her ruined make up when she pulled the gun from her purse and pointed it at her head.
I smudge the make-up on my face as the tears fall down my pretty face. I can be a better person, friend, wife, I know I can, and I’m gonna start.. now. Not later, because that’s never benefited me. I know that the only progress I can experience will result from immediate action.
It’s crazy to believe how everyone is just a small speck on Earth. That’s it nothing more. It’s as if we’re insignificant. As if we’re just pesky smudges marring the beautiful land.
pen ink left handed blue bic pencil eraser sharpenr, black it has six letters.
the mud was smudgey it lookied ugly it looked like a mud monster fat ugly yucky mud i used to say mum
I brought my wet thumb to his cheek and rubbed the black smudge beneath his eye. His delicate freckles began to show through the dark paint and his hazel green eyes watched intently as I worked at the stain-like substance. When it was mostly gone, I sat back and admired my work. He just stared back me with intensity no other human could match.
How could she do this to me! I specifically told her no smudges! But look they’re everywhere! All over my car windows! She just had to stick those little grubby fingers all over my windows. I can’t wait to tell mom, know little miss perfect will get a talking to, finally.
You could say I’m being a little harsh but for a ten year old this is just unexceptable.
i was really feeling awkward when i knew i had smuged eyeliner around peter in timisoara. i really liked him back then
He smudged the cracked photograph, it had aged with plenty of time, but he did not care. He stared into, letting it embrace him like he embraced it. His pet dog had been the most beautiful animal he had ever known.
A smudge of blood, and a hint of dirt on his face, smeared with tears, gave him a look that simply /screamed/ that he was once again drunk, and suicidal. The wasteland did that to a person, and he was one of those weak enough to drown in alcoholism and shame over the past. It didn’t matter, but the blood did – his own blood, taken from his choking throat.
He smudged the pages of the Black Flag novelization he held just read, holding it in his hands in a death grip. Without a doubt, it had been far better than the Pig Destroyer novelization he had read. In fact, the Black Flag one had been far more informative.
She left hours ago, the only witness to her ever having been here is the smudge of lipstick on the champagne flute and the self-doubt she left in my mind…
i smudged my eyeliner. i usually don’t wear makeup. but, i feel like it today. why? why do girls just have this feeling to look a certain way? something, that i may never understand… i get in my beat up neon and drive to school. i get these weird glances from people in my grade whom i don’t talk to. but, i keep walking anyways. my friend tells me i look good, thank God someone has a decent opinion around here. we go to class, and get through the day to lunch. a pack of plastic girls come up to our table. and ask me if i’m going emo. i don’t reply because it’s just best not to. we finish lunch and the rest of the afternoon. when i reach my last class, i am tormented by a group of boys. the bell finally rings and i get up to leave, when a boy named charlie approaches me. he says don’t listen to them, you’re beautiful. i say thank you and run off, amazed at his compliment. i go home and take my makeup off, thinking about everything that has happened today, how everyone treated me. i learn that i need to look a different way to please the people around me. not just please the people who care about me, or myself for that matter. why is the world this way? why do people treat other people for the way they look? a question i may get the answer for.
smudge I not have any thing that comes to mind about that word to me but it mite mean something to someone else!
There was a smudge on the window. A half print from her hand, pulling down. The rain outside battered against the glass, its harsh tattoo filling the room from the open window. She sat on her bed and watched as the water slid down. The room is dark and she can see her face reflected. The rain casting shadows, small moving patterns across her features. She tilts her head. Her reflection mimics her and she wonders what it’s like. On the other side of the glass. In a world of water, falling around her. She wonders if it’s gentle – caresses and light, whispers of the breeze touching her skin and sweetly playing through her hair. It’d be cold. She likes the cold. Prefers it. It has a comfort for her, like watching snow on mountains. She wonders if it’d be like floating in the sea. Being handed one way, then another, just following the movement.
You just have to trust me, that deep down in places where I do not show the light, I have a solid core that holds fast against these currents, tries so very hard to do what is best for you, for me, for the gaps inbetween that hang and smudge my eyeliner when I dare entertain the thought that I will never meet another person like you.
It couldn’t be erased, no matter how hard she tried. This memory taunted her like a smudge on a painting. It nagged and mocked her until she tried to escape from her mistake. But they knew. Everyone knew. She couldn’t change that.
There was a smudge in the corner of her glasses. As she moved to wipe it away, she noticed it was moving. She turned to see that it was not in fact a smudge, but a distant rainstorm, in constant motion, far off in the distance. Nothing is ever as small or meaningless as it might seem, she thought to herself. She removed her glasses and continued on her way, the lenses of no use to her now that she saw things with new eyes.
She groaned. Again. For the third time in this minute. No matter how hard she tried or concentrated, she could not stop smudging her pen marks. She wet her finger with her saliva and rubbed on the ink stain. The paper’s fibers broke off and littered the desk’s surface.
She spent hours on the painting, pouring in all of her soul and all of her attention. And it was all ruined, by that one little smudge. She couldn’t appreciate the painting without perfection – and likewise, she couldn’t appreciate the salvation right before her.
A black word, messed up. Needs to be fixed. A mistake ruled out of existence, meant to be erased. Nothing left but a smudge.
“Fucking damn it,” Grantaire muttered. He supposed it was probably a bit fitting, the smudge. It blurred his self-portrait’s eyes, the way he supposed alcohol probably did 85% of the time. He frowned all the same. Wasn’t a man allowed to at least pretend he didn’t know what he was?
The brown looks more vibrant than it should be on her pale face. He can’t find it in him to wipe it off, the evidence of childhood work on mud-homes outdoors.
its dirty like a boiling mud but cleaner then a pot of thea
it will never be a beautiful dress if your on it
too bad i dont wear dresses
I think of mud. someone wiping mud against a clean car. like, little kids playing with mud. and the dad getting on to them for playing with it. Then the dad having to clean the car afterwards.
The smudge on the glass was the only thing keeping me sane. I know it seemed silly, but considering everthing else thats been happening, it seemes perfectly logicle to me
I dropped my notebook into the puddle and saw all my ink run and smudge. All those words, all those hours, my dreams, my ideas, just gone in that instant. I could have cried, yet somehow I felt liberated by my accid
I don’t know what to write because my mind is covered in poison.smudge.My mind is covered in poision and I don’t know what to do with myself.I don’t want to die but I can’t live like this
The black stain rips a calloused claw against my grimy face the visage that reveals my every emotion. The spread and mushed the finger pressing against blurring the fine point of life.
black spot on the nose of a young boy. He tries in vain to wipe it off but it stays there in the centre of his face. The more he rubs it, the worse it gets. Dirty, sweaty and grimy, it is imbedded on his being.
Nothing could remove it from the glass, it was as if her sin had been stained onto it, nothing more than a moment but there it was to remain forever. He feared for what her husband would think, but at the same time, was thrilled at the thought that he would find out.
the smudge on his nose was the most irksome thing about him. He seemed to completely ignore it, almost as if it wasn’t there. Which it was of course. And that was the one part he refused to fix.
a smudge is something made by discarding the excess, something unwanted and unclean. It is not noticed unless it is to be disliked, or wiped away. An inconsequential thing which can be easily wiped away, on most occasions.
Don’t think. My hands are shaking. What’s a smudge? Can I type in the time allotted? Will my words make sense as I try and fumble with the letters that I see in black and white, crisp and bold. I know what it means, but what can it equivocate to? Am I spelling everything right? This is a mess, and all my thoughts mirror the pressure involved in having to write about a smudge in less than a minute.
It’s a mess on the page. Grey, filthy, a smear. A tear drop is the cause for the interruption between the fine lines and the pronounced letters in black and white dictating the story that she wished to be told. Her tear was the reason that from crisp and perfect it became an ugly smudge, a blur.
There was a smudge on Chris’ t-shirt. A red smudge. Usually, it would be a food stain or a stain from the juice he had been drinking at school. This time, it was something much more sinister. It was blood. His dad had been drinking again, that was obvious to see. Gordie frowned.
The expression on her face was almost like mud smudged across her lips and chin. Her nostrils flared. She looked dirty. Felt dirty. She was like an angry, sick mongrel baying for nourishment. She felt starved. Emaciated. Weak.
“Stop sneering at me,” the stranger snarled, trying to be intimidating.
But she wasn’t intimidated. Not anymore, she told herself. As her hands curled into fists.
i sometimes fear i smudge the picture some people have made of me
and thats a bloody sad thing
said by someone with apparently no self-esteem at all
even though i know that’s not true
what’s not true?
decide for yourself
The ink never dries, not completely. The book could be a thousand years old, and when the warmth of life touches it, it bleeds, it runs, it is remade. Recast in the muddiness of reality, a far cry from the crystallization of a work no one reads, no one cares for, and that never gets that touch.
have you ever wanted to run away so badly you never really thought it through. just wanted to go, even if you had no idea how you were going to get money or food or even a place to sleep. you just wanted to go and never come back because any place is better than here. that’s how i’ve felt my entire life.
as i sat on the bus in the pouring rain, i realized this.
i was just a smudge in a bus window. easily wiped away and forgotten.