Going into the sound, it’s calling from far away. Most people don’t believe me when I admit I am looking for its source. They laugh. The normal folk call me messed up. The professors worry for me. But here I am, looking for a source of something outside of myself. The guru…
I weave in and out of the the ocean like a reed and make a basket of beauty and complexity I weave the tapestry of life and and it sings to the ocean of perfection. The weaving of lives is so intricate it startles the soul. I have no idea what I am writing about. Women have weaves in their hair. Weaves of time of waste of feelings of never being enough. Why do we never feel as though we are enough? Why when we should just be free to be ourselves. Free
I weave in and out of the the ocean like a reed and make a basket of beauty and complexity I weave the tapestry of life and and it sings to the ocean of perfection. The weaving of lives is so intricate it startles the soul. I have no idea what I am writing about.
I like to wear weaves a ton because my natural hairline is disgusting. Also, weaves in general are just fun to wear and you get to change up your hair on the daily without damaging it. I HATE when someone yanks my weave out though. It makes the worst sound in a quiet class.
“Weave the sunlight in her hair.” I think that’s how that line went. The name of the poem was in French so I am not sure what it was, but the parts I could understand were absolutely beautiful.
He chose to weave in and out of traffic, like a maniac that he had seen on the movie screen the night before. Why did he choose to do this, of all things, instead of just stopping to say good bye to her. Instead of waiting until she was gone.
Now, when he chooses to weave in traffic, it’ll be in the clouds.
All of the different corners of my mind, everything interwoven. Somewhere are my memories before you but they have been overshadowed by the ones since. Slowly, new faces and sensations of touch interlace but the thoughts of you are fire to my soul. Singeing everything in your wake.
Our lives weave together in an infinite web that ultimately shows that we are one. Our thoughts are based on the thoughts of each and every influence we have had woven together in an intricate heirloom! cherished by those that choose to see this. This weave ultimately is the essence of God!
You know it’s been coming. Weaving in and out of traffic, like a kite in the air, no like a starling chased by the hawk. It’s on your heels. Anticipation. Tingles down your spine, cold sweat on your back. Reflect. In the rear view mirror it grins. Brandishes its scythe like an oncoming truck you didn’t see entering the intersection this time.
I had to weave through the traffic that evening and i knew she would be waiting at home on the sofa with the radiator on, maybe reading a book or crocheting. Except when I got home she wasn’t there: the house was dark and cold. She had gone. I feared the worst.
Then I saw she had left me a note. it said: Weave run out of sugar I’ve just popped to the shops X
I bobbed and weaved, my shirt sticking to my sweaty back. Each punch pushed a dull ache through my over worked muscles. But each punch released a bit of anger. Anger I’d suppressed for so long, I didn’t even know it was still there.
She sat at the desk, unsure what to write about. The word for today made her think of the wife of Ulysses, of what she studied in school. Damn, all that literature abandoning her brain. Replaced by oh-so-helpful-but-it-is-not-my-aspiration IT crap. Why didn’t I choose literature? Why a degree that fills your stomach but empties your dreams? She sighed and started to weave a new story. Slowly her consciousness was alive, she felt mindful and light.
Going into the sound, it’s calling from far away. Most people don’t believe me when I admit I am looking for its source. They laugh. The normal folk call me messed up. The professors worry for me. But here I am, looking for a source of something outside of myself. The guru…
I weave in and out of the the ocean like a reed and make a basket of beauty and complexity I weave the tapestry of life and and it sings to the ocean of perfection. The weaving of lives is so intricate it startles the soul. I have no idea what I am writing about. Women have weaves in their hair. Weaves of time of waste of feelings of never being enough. Why do we never feel as though we are enough? Why when we should just be free to be ourselves. Free
I weave in and out of the the ocean like a reed and make a basket of beauty and complexity I weave the tapestry of life and and it sings to the ocean of perfection. The weaving of lives is so intricate it startles the soul. I have no idea what I am writing about.
Shawty snatched my weave last night at da club. I say cash me outside how bow datttt
I like to wear weaves a ton because my natural hairline is disgusting. Also, weaves in general are just fun to wear and you get to change up your hair on the daily without damaging it. I HATE when someone yanks my weave out though. It makes the worst sound in a quiet class.
How all our lives weave into each other. Me here and a stranger in the other side of the world. How do you lives shape each other. How are you?
“Weave the sunlight in her hair.” I think that’s how that line went. The name of the poem was in French so I am not sure what it was, but the parts I could understand were absolutely beautiful.
Weave the basket. Please. I’m begging you. Why won’t you weave the basket? I’m so mad at you!
He chose to weave in and out of traffic, like a maniac that he had seen on the movie screen the night before. Why did he choose to do this, of all things, instead of just stopping to say good bye to her. Instead of waiting until she was gone.
Now, when he chooses to weave in traffic, it’ll be in the clouds.
All of the different corners of my mind, everything interwoven. Somewhere are my memories before you but they have been overshadowed by the ones since. Slowly, new faces and sensations of touch interlace but the thoughts of you are fire to my soul. Singeing everything in your wake.
Our lives weave together in an infinite web that ultimately shows that we are one. Our thoughts are based on the thoughts of each and every influence we have had woven together in an intricate heirloom! cherished by those that choose to see this. This weave ultimately is the essence of God!
You know it’s been coming. Weaving in and out of traffic, like a kite in the air, no like a starling chased by the hawk. It’s on your heels. Anticipation. Tingles down your spine, cold sweat on your back. Reflect. In the rear view mirror it grins. Brandishes its scythe like an oncoming truck you didn’t see entering the intersection this time.
I had to weave through the traffic that evening and i knew she would be waiting at home on the sofa with the radiator on, maybe reading a book or crocheting. Except when I got home she wasn’t there: the house was dark and cold. She had gone. I feared the worst.
Then I saw she had left me a note. it said: Weave run out of sugar I’ve just popped to the shops X
I bobbed and weaved, my shirt sticking to my sweaty back. Each punch pushed a dull ache through my over worked muscles. But each punch released a bit of anger. Anger I’d suppressed for so long, I didn’t even know it was still there.
The giant snake weaved through the grass, getting closer to Lucy, then when it got to her, it reared its head and…
She sat at the desk, unsure what to write about. The word for today made her think of the wife of Ulysses, of what she studied in school. Damn, all that literature abandoning her brain. Replaced by oh-so-helpful-but-it-is-not-my-aspiration IT crap. Why didn’t I choose literature? Why a degree that fills your stomach but empties your dreams? She sighed and started to weave a new story. Slowly her consciousness was alive, she felt mindful and light.