As Jane walked to work everyday she couldn’t help wondering about the man with the unkempt appearance sitting on the bench by the park. Who was he and why did he sit there.
I am very often unkempt. I comb my hair once a day and don’t look in mirrors or primp at all. Probably I should but I don’t. I have the fashion sense of a mid-western farm hand, and coupled with color blindness, it makes for an “interesting look”.
unkempt is an English word. it has7 letters. the first one is u, second is n,the third is k the fourth is e and there are many more as i have got only 60 secs.
The smartest man I’ve ever met was also the most unkempt. Humphrey was obviously ‘out there’. He was overweight, and he walked with a slow wobble. His hair was wild and formed a single massive dreadnought down his back. Humphrey was too smart for this world. He spoke of other worlds, and our other lives, spanning time and space. He would saunter by our house on his way to his. He would stop and look at our kids playing out front. Inevitably, he would focus on Chai. ‘That one’s a traveller,’ he’d say. ‘He’s come from far away.’ This terrified Chai. He was only 4.
The room was unkept and unkempt. I really am not sure what this word means but i know it feels like unkept, which to me means dirty or out of place. what if i am wrong about the orgin of this word. Do i lose? Do i win a reverse game?
jesus, russ, you look like shit. you are wearing a couple of meals on the front of your sweatshirt, you have oreo crumbs in your beard and your hair looks like it got caught in a blender. wtf?
His hair was unkempt; each strand curled in a different direction that the one adjacent to it. I thought about running my hands through it, undoing each knot as I kiss his neck.
She was unkempt after digging around in the trash, but she’d found it. Now all she had to do was get to the third house on Ninth Street before the others.
sOh this would be o much easier if I knew what this word meant. i don’t even understand what i’m doing right now. isn’t unempt like messy? Isn’t it the word my mom uses to decribe my hair more than once a day? it probably is. It’s crazy because I really do try with my hair. i do. I brush and dry and scream and cry…okay well the last two don’t really matter when it comes to my hair, but they happen when i try to do my hair. If you couldn’t tell, keeping myself neat isn’t a priority. My main priority is writing…it keeps me sane and happy and creative.
By jingo! You look disgracefully uncouth and unkempt my dear sir! Have you been dragged through a hedge backwards? No? Well go and change and for goodness sake comb your hair! Gracious!
Some days lately I feel unkempt. I want to be glamorous like Lana Del Rey and look stunning all the time. Instead I end up going to work with my hair unbrushed, wearing ugg boots. No makeup.
the hair fell across the face like dry dying grass growing haphazardly atop the crumbling wall. clothes ripped, sewn, ripped again. eyes wild not yet dead, alive with the abandonment of survival fever.
The familiar crunch of plastic bottles beneath my feet welcome me home. I pass up the couch for the opportunity to sit on the floor. The sounds outside blend into a chorus of screeching, laughing, banging, wailing.
I’m not sure how time passes anymore, but I would think my clock would have told me I hadn’t moved in hours.
I remember just getting home.
The clock says I haven’t moved in three hours.
How precious are these hours I’ve let go?
My hair is brushed but looks like I haven’t touched it. Underneath it, a head full of screeching, laughing, banging, wailing
and the anxious quiet that is borne of so much noise
in one small head.
Hair that snarled and snaggled, millions of little fibrous plants, that left an odor of grease and something wild. There was something about him that his hair expressed perfectly. You couldn’t tell him what to do; you try pouring water over his hair and combing but the comb would just get stuck like a Gulliver among Lilliputians. The hair would be sodden but angrier, and when dry they would erect themselves again, like weeds.
The room was unkempt, no one had been there in weeks to clean it. She just lay in her bed day after day, only leaving to eat but never leaving her house. No one came to see her these days and she knew no one would ever come again.
unkempt hair falls about her in long tangled masses, bedraggled like lush vines and thorns mildewed leaves that brush and blow as raps of old man’s breath, painstakingly placed and lovingly propped within the
Hers was an unkempt mind. She had hidden herself in a small windowless room and lived for years in the hazy glow of 24 hour cable tv. She favoured talk shows and soaps, to which she sat glued aside from the moving parts that fed her popcorn and noodles, donuts for morning tea and bars of chocolate for dessert.
She was disappointed to see that his beard was still unkempt just two hours before their wedding. She had insisted he shaved it, but he refused, as if his beard were the key to his entire existence.
Staring at the coarse curls, she found herself thinking, “Is this the end? Because of his beard?”
Unkempt, she was torn away from this world
Like the Mississippi river. God I would’ve sworn a year ago that I’d never seen anything more beautiful, but here it was. A disheveled piece of a scarf that she left behind. The only delicate symbol of her divine union with what we label life. Now she’s gone.
Her hair was unkempt and messy. It felt out of control and wild, just like her life. But she started to play with it and realized she could shape it to whatever she wanted. She could control it by using her hands, her brain, her ingenuity. She could create from chaos.
Everyone stayed away from the unkempt man who lived in the small house in the center of town which was a great pity. He knew more than he let on, and had a great many stories in his head just waiting for the right person to tell them to. Yet years passed on and he remained alone, lifting neither pen nor his eyes from the many books that occupied the dark spaces where no person but he had ever tread.
Everyone stayed away from the unkempt man who lived in the small house in the center of town which was a great pity. He knew more than he let on, and had a great many stories in his head, just waiting for the right person to tell them to.
His hair is sticking up in every direction, wild, unkempt. He runs a hand through the dark mess impatiently, too absorbed in his book to find it in himself to care about his appearance.
His unkempt hair stuck out in waves, and she stared at him to preserve this image of him in her head. He had woken up a few seconds ago, and his eyes adjusted to the room around them.
Love. Hate. Absence. Pride. What, in this world, is meant to be beautiful? To be orderly? To have purpose? Unkempt are the memoirs of my heart filth smeared and scattered in an unlit room.
the way you feel on long days spent at home. wild, free, tangled in your bed head hair. soft sheets. conjuring up the worst times and the best feelings. tossed around in the morning sunshine. warmth and the smell of your pillow when you leave
For three weeks before the race, he had a team of men working a network of betting shops, putting on small to medium sized amounts, never visiting the same shop twice, so that no one would notice any trends in the betting. It probably didn’t matter, but he even had them change their appearance between shops, so that the same person would not show up in security videos from more than one store. Even their appearance; not to unkempt, not too stylish, was specified,
so that they would be remembered by nobody. Because it had to look like nobody was doing this.
Messy. Unkempt. Seductive. Sloppy. Lazy. Too long. Girly. Ugly. I teased my fingers though his hair, enjoying the way it played with the breeze, slipping from my fingertips. I focused on the filaments, following them until I found his eyes.
Her hair was unkempt and messy, falling elegantly from the worn out bun. Her fingers reached up to scratch her head again and smooth it over, strands falling loose on either side of her forehead. Lip held between teeth as she concentrated on the assignment before her.
Her hair was unkempt, wild tendrils springing out in all directions, ratty curls frizzing here and there. It looked like she had been swimming in the pool and had forgotten to comb through her hair before she took a long, dissatisfying nap.
I really hate it when my daughter neglects her appearance and looks unkempt. It creates a bad impression, which she doesn’t always care about. I’m not sure if it’s due to laziness or just lack of awareness and simply not noticing that her hair is messy and her shirt is stained.
The child walked across the road, unkempt and unaware of any implications crossing a busy intersection would cause. A woman, probably a mother of some sort, quickly screamed and stopped the boy mid-stride, his face aloof and terrified at the harshness of her tone.
She ran her hand through his perfect hair.
“I spent time on that this morning just for you, you know.”
She smiled and tucked some longish hair behind his ears.
“Yeah, but sometimes I don’t mind the unkempt look.”
He grinned.
Those who remain unkempt are typically the most interesting — physically and mentally. Those troubled by thoughts that won’t seem to let up, sometimes leading to a lack of time to dedicate to the superficiality of physical appearances. I urge them to remain how they currently exist and keep their priorities straight.
From the first look you could tell who this man was. What he had been through. His hair was caked with dirt and hadn’t seen a brush in months. His clothes, also dirty, had holes all over, showing his thick, dark skin.
My thoughts are unkempt. It’s akin to a disorganized closet, the one that people always avoid cleaning until they can’t possibly avoid it any longer. Now when I’ve actually tried getting rid of useless things in there, I find myself physically unable to. This war in my mind is in full swing, and I’m not sure who is winning anymore. The tipping point is getting closer and closer, and decisions will have to be made. It’ll be interesting to see what happens.
She was so dirty. Unkempt and nasty. She hasn’t showered for days. Her eyes sunk in and were red all around. Her hair was tangled and frizzy and there was things in it.
As Jane walked to work everyday she couldn’t help wondering about the man with the unkempt appearance sitting on the bench by the park. Who was he and why did he sit there.
I am very often unkempt. I comb my hair once a day and don’t look in mirrors or primp at all. Probably I should but I don’t. I have the fashion sense of a mid-western farm hand, and coupled with color blindness, it makes for an “interesting look”.
unkempt is an English word. it has7 letters. the first one is u, second is n,the third is k the fourth is e and there are many more as i have got only 60 secs.
The smartest man I’ve ever met was also the most unkempt. Humphrey was obviously ‘out there’. He was overweight, and he walked with a slow wobble. His hair was wild and formed a single massive dreadnought down his back. Humphrey was too smart for this world. He spoke of other worlds, and our other lives, spanning time and space. He would saunter by our house on his way to his. He would stop and look at our kids playing out front. Inevitably, he would focus on Chai. ‘That one’s a traveller,’ he’d say. ‘He’s come from far away.’ This terrified Chai. He was only 4.
The room was unkept and unkempt. I really am not sure what this word means but i know it feels like unkept, which to me means dirty or out of place. what if i am wrong about the orgin of this word. Do i lose? Do i win a reverse game?
jesus, russ, you look like shit. you are wearing a couple of meals on the front of your sweatshirt, you have oreo crumbs in your beard and your hair looks like it got caught in a blender. wtf?
His hair was unkempt; each strand curled in a different direction that the one adjacent to it. I thought about running my hands through it, undoing each knot as I kiss his neck.
She was unkempt after digging around in the trash, but she’d found it. Now all she had to do was get to the third house on Ninth Street before the others.
sOh this would be o much easier if I knew what this word meant. i don’t even understand what i’m doing right now. isn’t unempt like messy? Isn’t it the word my mom uses to decribe my hair more than once a day? it probably is. It’s crazy because I really do try with my hair. i do. I brush and dry and scream and cry…okay well the last two don’t really matter when it comes to my hair, but they happen when i try to do my hair. If you couldn’t tell, keeping myself neat isn’t a priority. My main priority is writing…it keeps me sane and happy and creative.
By jingo! You look disgracefully uncouth and unkempt my dear sir! Have you been dragged through a hedge backwards? No? Well go and change and for goodness sake comb your hair! Gracious!
Some days lately I feel unkempt. I want to be glamorous like Lana Del Rey and look stunning all the time. Instead I end up going to work with my hair unbrushed, wearing ugg boots. No makeup.
the hair fell across the face like dry dying grass growing haphazardly atop the crumbling wall. clothes ripped, sewn, ripped again. eyes wild not yet dead, alive with the abandonment of survival fever.
unravelled, fallen, sick
crawl up the stairs
hair dragging behind
Messy,
messy faces messy places
nasty dirty life
the consequences of not respecting
the boundaries set in place
The familiar crunch of plastic bottles beneath my feet welcome me home. I pass up the couch for the opportunity to sit on the floor. The sounds outside blend into a chorus of screeching, laughing, banging, wailing.
I’m not sure how time passes anymore, but I would think my clock would have told me I hadn’t moved in hours.
I remember just getting home.
The clock says I haven’t moved in three hours.
How precious are these hours I’ve let go?
My hair is brushed but looks like I haven’t touched it. Underneath it, a head full of screeching, laughing, banging, wailing
and the anxious quiet that is borne of so much noise
in one small head.
Hair that snarled and snaggled, millions of little fibrous plants, that left an odor of grease and something wild. There was something about him that his hair expressed perfectly. You couldn’t tell him what to do; you try pouring water over his hair and combing but the comb would just get stuck like a Gulliver among Lilliputians. The hair would be sodden but angrier, and when dry they would erect themselves again, like weeds.
The room was unkempt, no one had been there in weeks to clean it. She just lay in her bed day after day, only leaving to eat but never leaving her house. No one came to see her these days and she knew no one would ever come again.
unkempt hair falls about her in long tangled masses, bedraggled like lush vines and thorns mildewed leaves that brush and blow as raps of old man’s breath, painstakingly placed and lovingly propped within the
Hers was an unkempt mind. She had hidden herself in a small windowless room and lived for years in the hazy glow of 24 hour cable tv. She favoured talk shows and soaps, to which she sat glued aside from the moving parts that fed her popcorn and noodles, donuts for morning tea and bars of chocolate for dessert.
She was disappointed to see that his beard was still unkempt just two hours before their wedding. She had insisted he shaved it, but he refused, as if his beard were the key to his entire existence.
Staring at the coarse curls, she found herself thinking, “Is this the end? Because of his beard?”
Unkempt, she was torn away from this world
Like the Mississippi river. God I would’ve sworn a year ago that I’d never seen anything more beautiful, but here it was. A disheveled piece of a scarf that she left behind. The only delicate symbol of her divine union with what we label life. Now she’s gone.
Her hair was unkempt and messy. It felt out of control and wild, just like her life. But she started to play with it and realized she could shape it to whatever she wanted. She could control it by using her hands, her brain, her ingenuity. She could create from chaos.
Everyone stayed away from the unkempt man who lived in the small house in the center of town which was a great pity. He knew more than he let on, and had a great many stories in his head just waiting for the right person to tell them to. Yet years passed on and he remained alone, lifting neither pen nor his eyes from the many books that occupied the dark spaces where no person but he had ever tread.
Everyone stayed away from the unkempt man who lived in the small house in the center of town which was a great pity. He knew more than he let on, and had a great many stories in his head, just waiting for the right person to tell them to.
His hair is sticking up in every direction, wild, unkempt. He runs a hand through the dark mess impatiently, too absorbed in his book to find it in himself to care about his appearance.
His unkempt hair stuck out in waves, and she stared at him to preserve this image of him in her head. He had woken up a few seconds ago, and his eyes adjusted to the room around them.
“…We really did it.”
“Yeah.” She ruffled his hair. “We’re married.”
Love. Hate. Absence. Pride. What, in this world, is meant to be beautiful? To be orderly? To have purpose? Unkempt are the memoirs of my heart filth smeared and scattered in an unlit room.
the way you feel on long days spent at home. wild, free, tangled in your bed head hair. soft sheets. conjuring up the worst times and the best feelings. tossed around in the morning sunshine. warmth and the smell of your pillow when you leave
For three weeks before the race, he had a team of men working a network of betting shops, putting on small to medium sized amounts, never visiting the same shop twice, so that no one would notice any trends in the betting. It probably didn’t matter, but he even had them change their appearance between shops, so that the same person would not show up in security videos from more than one store. Even their appearance; not to unkempt, not too stylish, was specified,
so that they would be remembered by nobody. Because it had to look like nobody was doing this.
Messy. Unkempt. Seductive. Sloppy. Lazy. Too long. Girly. Ugly. I teased my fingers though his hair, enjoying the way it played with the breeze, slipping from my fingertips. I focused on the filaments, following them until I found his eyes.
Her hair was unkempt and messy, falling elegantly from the worn out bun. Her fingers reached up to scratch her head again and smooth it over, strands falling loose on either side of her forehead. Lip held between teeth as she concentrated on the assignment before her.
Her hair was unkempt, wild tendrils springing out in all directions, ratty curls frizzing here and there. It looked like she had been swimming in the pool and had forgotten to comb through her hair before she took a long, dissatisfying nap.
I really hate it when my daughter neglects her appearance and looks unkempt. It creates a bad impression, which she doesn’t always care about. I’m not sure if it’s due to laziness or just lack of awareness and simply not noticing that her hair is messy and her shirt is stained.
The child walked across the road, unkempt and unaware of any implications crossing a busy intersection would cause. A woman, probably a mother of some sort, quickly screamed and stopped the boy mid-stride, his face aloof and terrified at the harshness of her tone.
She ran her hand through his perfect hair.
“I spent time on that this morning just for you, you know.”
She smiled and tucked some longish hair behind his ears.
“Yeah, but sometimes I don’t mind the unkempt look.”
He grinned.
with my loops and curls askew, you came
and asked me how I was.
I didn’t know what to say, I’m lame;
which is just how and because.
Those who remain unkempt are typically the most interesting — physically and mentally. Those troubled by thoughts that won’t seem to let up, sometimes leading to a lack of time to dedicate to the superficiality of physical appearances. I urge them to remain how they currently exist and keep their priorities straight.
From the first look you could tell who this man was. What he had been through. His hair was caked with dirt and hadn’t seen a brush in months. His clothes, also dirty, had holes all over, showing his thick, dark skin.
My thoughts are unkempt. It’s akin to a disorganized closet, the one that people always avoid cleaning until they can’t possibly avoid it any longer. Now when I’ve actually tried getting rid of useless things in there, I find myself physically unable to. This war in my mind is in full swing, and I’m not sure who is winning anymore. The tipping point is getting closer and closer, and decisions will have to be made. It’ll be interesting to see what happens.
She was so dirty. Unkempt and nasty. She hasn’t showered for days. Her eyes sunk in and were red all around. Her hair was tangled and frizzy and there was things in it.