the area was weathered with snow and other weather that weathers earth. like rain and stuff. Stuff like the weather. Yesterday my backyard was weathered with snow. My dog was weathered with cold white snow.
I dragged feet to the edge
Dont look down, just do it.
Don’t look at your demise.
My dad taught me that.
It was better to watch death from afar, rather then to stare it straight in the face.
I knew what lied in store for me down below.
Nothing.
I would become apart of the mountain, unmoving and still.
Numb.
Eventually I would weather and erode, all by nature’s course.
Gone.
I would finally be free.
I sat alone in the mud, covered in my own sin. I knew there was no escape, I knew that there was nothing I could do. I had weathered through many paths of life, and I had destroyed each and every one of them. I would never find peace, or love..I am already gone.
We sit down on the bench, its weathered wood creaking under our weight. I stare out at the water, at the horizon. At that moment, I realized that we were back where we had started. Full circle, I thought to myself. A circle shouldn’t have an ending. Yet, here we were, sitting silently in the spot that held so much meaning to us. Neither wanting it to end, yet knowing that we could never go on with all that had happened. I inhale the salty air, filling my lungs before I let the words I had been wishing I wouldn’t have to say stumble out.
I saw an old man at the beach today. He was walking his dog along by the waterline. He had a brown leathery tan face weathered by years of walking down at the beach.
I smiled at him but he had that far away stare that old men have when thy are thinking of ages past
It was an old wooden swing out in the front of the house. Beautiful, it was. Beautiful. It would swing with the wind, and people would always smile when they saw it; it was weathered; but it was beautiful.
He watched as the weathered ship slid – rather, lurched under the waves,. Really, it seemed like it was fighting its way down. Like gravity was working in reverse and it was trying with great deliberation to root out some hidden treasure buried in the trenches miles and miles below.
He really rather hoped that someone would come by before he drowned.
I saw a weathered barn and wondered what it had been through. How many baby animals had been born there? Had crops been stored in the barn? What stories did this weathered barn have to tell?
She lived in her old weathered home that was built in 1897, and she knew that she would never leave it unless someone very special came into her life and asked her to.
All in all, the ship had weathered the storm well. Some damage, but not enough to prevent them from getting home. A few of the crew were sporting bruises, and Magellan, the ship’s cat, had taken refuge in a storage locker and would probably never come out.
I’ve weathered so much now, so much that people typically don’t see underneath the surface. Scars across my body, but they’re invisible. They can’t be seen. It’s not like it used to be, where I would show what I was thinking.
I’ve learned to hide it, what I’ve gone through, because nobody wants to know it.
But still, it’s there if you look.
And if you look, you’ll see who I am behind the smile.
You know, they say you can learn a lot about someone by looking at their shoes, but not many people look down. He was wearing brown leather boots that were weathered by the many miles he walked in them. This man was rich, not by fortune, but by experience. Yes, he had a lot of that. My gaze traveled up to his eyes and suddenly we were locked in this brilliant stare. His eyes, green with flecks of brown, like gold. Yes, this man was rich.
You know, they say you can tell a lot about someone by their shoes, but no one ever bothers to look down at them. He had brown leather boots on that were weathered by the many miles he walked in them. He was obviously the richest man in the world. Not by having a lot of money, but by experience. He had a lot of that. My gaze traveled up to his eyes and suddenly we were locked in a dead stare. Green, with flecks of brown, almost like gold, yes, he was rich.
A craggy face, full of pits and acne scars like pickpocket reminders from childhood, or the bullet holes of a war with adulthood. He was shy, and soft, like a deer, and his eyes were the biggest and dampest blue you had ever seen, like a doe. I was surprised not to see his skin dappled, his cheeks drinking in forest sunlight, his feet hooves.
I don’t know where I am, but the weather is very bad… It is dark, but I can feel the raindrops heavily falling on my shoulders. My jeans jacket is thick, but I still can feel it.
the fisherman had the red ruddy face which was well weathered from the salt spray of his life on the ocean it became him it marked who he was and that he could take all that life threw at him
Chips of stone torn from the jaws of a once powerful gargoyle. It overlooks the streets, a bit weathered by now. An audience to the urban dirge, an elegy of his city’s gradual decay.
I stood upon the weathered stone and waited for the ocean air to hit me from the left, cooling the aches in my shoulder and elbow as I tried to forget the very concept of pain. It occurred to me that the walk to the shore had taken two hours, and my small village was nothing but a distant shadow behind me. The Atlantic was the only thing separating me from another continent, and I wished dearly that I had the endurance to swim the entire way across it.
By the look on her face, I could tell she had been out all night. Her hair was all over the place and her smile was weathered. I thought I knew her but with this small action, I knew all of my opinions about her where wrong.
My soul is weathered much like that of the stone walls of Stone Henge. Through years of hardship I have overcome and made my path as it needs to be. I will continue to wash away the erosion and become the person I’m destined to be.
Been rain after snow and a dust wind that blows.
across old rust and slow as the roads,
I’ve been out here so long.
With the moon singing songs
with a flowing sound soothing the woes
Dried, cracked boughs
Time’s slowing down
Lines of my brow reading old prose
And the sun bows low
sweeping beneath my toes
climbing to rise just once more
Tears welled in Mari’s eyes, her heart ready to burst with excitement, as she sat down on the couch and ran her hand over the weathered black book. Oh, how she’d spent years searching for something that meant so little to others but everything to her and her family. “I can’t believe I found it,” She whispered, adding a little laugh, as she put a hand over her heart. Maybe know she’d know why her father had insisted on her finding it after he passed away.
A beat of silence, then: “Gosh, open it, sis!” from her brother Laurie, always hyper about one thing or another.
Mari laughed again, carefully flipping to the first page—the words “DEATH HAS FOUND YOU” scrawled in red over the first entry chilling she and Laurie to the bone.
My body is weathered.
When I think of you again, under the lilac bush
I will retreat back into my shell of thinking you were the one.
Each night before going to bed I will pray the rosary
hoping you’ll find you’re way back to me.
Soon even then I will convince myself that it is only the summer heat.
You are no longer what controls me, it is different now.
That night i will pray the rosary ten times hoping you’ll get lost.
I saw a hummingbird once. It reminded me of the day my sister read me poems and we drank sweet tea. When I was careless. Content. Now the tea seems too sweet. I am not myself anymore. I am weathered. Dark Purple, Bruised but not beaten. Lost without dismay. And I like it. For a split second I think This is it. This is who I really am. But then I see you in school; You were my best. My worst. We sold the bench we sat at. The grass doesn’t grow there anymore. I don’t grow anymore, for I am stunted.
She came across an old house, it was dark, damp and weathered. She wandered inside to see if he was in there, she searched all over but she couldn’t find him. Then there it was, she saw it. The monster.
With weathered determination, her last tear and faint heart signified that she had finally given up, only to realize that the thing she wanted all along merely required that she simply take one more step. Don’t give up.
I thought about my lonely nights as a child. My mom was still at work but she tried not to stay too long. It didn’t work out as she planned all the time. So my childhood was lonely most of the time. Sometimes I looked out of my tiny window and thought to myself:
Emma ran her fingers over the stone, feeling how aged it was. It was weathered down a consistentency where it almost felt soft to the touch despite being solid rock. She found herself wondering how long this person had been dead – certainly the tombstone had been around for long enough for it to have gotten to this point. With a sigh, she looked down. Maybe this would be suitable for her sketch.
It was as if the stars had blown their curtains on the leaves. The window did not display any emotion so far. The edges roared on the silken mouths, and somebody shouted out the paradigms of being a triangle, How can toes shape the movement of our feet?
His weathered hands held a wailing infant girl. Her eyes shone blue as they swelled over with tears. Her tiny fist swung, but the old man’s strong grasp held her securely.
“‘Weathered.’ Huh. Not the best term to describe it. Especially when referring to actual weather. Well, it’s your show, not mine. I don’t make the decisions. Weathered it is!”
the area was weathered with snow and other weather that weathers earth. like rain and stuff. Stuff like the weather. Yesterday my backyard was weathered with snow. My dog was weathered with cold white snow.
I dragged feet to the edge
Dont look down, just do it.
Don’t look at your demise.
My dad taught me that.
It was better to watch death from afar, rather then to stare it straight in the face.
I knew what lied in store for me down below.
Nothing.
I would become apart of the mountain, unmoving and still.
Numb.
Eventually I would weather and erode, all by nature’s course.
Gone.
I would finally be free.
I sat alone in the mud, covered in my own sin. I knew there was no escape, I knew that there was nothing I could do. I had weathered through many paths of life, and I had destroyed each and every one of them. I would never find peace, or love..I am already gone.
We sit down on the bench, its weathered wood creaking under our weight. I stare out at the water, at the horizon. At that moment, I realized that we were back where we had started. Full circle, I thought to myself. A circle shouldn’t have an ending. Yet, here we were, sitting silently in the spot that held so much meaning to us. Neither wanting it to end, yet knowing that we could never go on with all that had happened. I inhale the salty air, filling my lungs before I let the words I had been wishing I wouldn’t have to say stumble out.
The leather binding was torn and weathered down. It’s crisp yellow pages flipped with satisfying sound. The reader look intently at the pages.
Fingers trailed over
That weathered wood
Used to create
Built by one she never met
But all good things
For the her attached to those fingers
Eventualy
Fall down
I saw an old man at the beach today. He was walking his dog along by the waterline. He had a brown leathery tan face weathered by years of walking down at the beach.
I smiled at him but he had that far away stare that old men have when thy are thinking of ages past
It was an old wooden swing out in the front of the house. Beautiful, it was. Beautiful. It would swing with the wind, and people would always smile when they saw it; it was weathered; but it was beautiful.
He watched as the weathered ship slid – rather, lurched under the waves,. Really, it seemed like it was fighting its way down. Like gravity was working in reverse and it was trying with great deliberation to root out some hidden treasure buried in the trenches miles and miles below.
He really rather hoped that someone would come by before he drowned.
I saw a weathered barn and wondered what it had been through. How many baby animals had been born there? Had crops been stored in the barn? What stories did this weathered barn have to tell?
She lived in her old weathered home that was built in 1897, and she knew that she would never leave it unless someone very special came into her life and asked her to.
All in all, the ship had weathered the storm well. Some damage, but not enough to prevent them from getting home. A few of the crew were sporting bruises, and Magellan, the ship’s cat, had taken refuge in a storage locker and would probably never come out.
I’ve weathered so much now, so much that people typically don’t see underneath the surface. Scars across my body, but they’re invisible. They can’t be seen. It’s not like it used to be, where I would show what I was thinking.
I’ve learned to hide it, what I’ve gone through, because nobody wants to know it.
But still, it’s there if you look.
And if you look, you’ll see who I am behind the smile.
You know, they say you can learn a lot about someone by looking at their shoes, but not many people look down. He was wearing brown leather boots that were weathered by the many miles he walked in them. This man was rich, not by fortune, but by experience. Yes, he had a lot of that. My gaze traveled up to his eyes and suddenly we were locked in this brilliant stare. His eyes, green with flecks of brown, like gold. Yes, this man was rich.
Weathered means that it’s rainy or snowy or sunny or cloudy.
Weathered is when there’s lots of wind and rain and sunny or cloudy or snowy days
Weathered is when there’s lots of wind and rain and sunny or cloudy or snowy days.
You know, they say you can tell a lot about someone by their shoes, but no one ever bothers to look down at them. He had brown leather boots on that were weathered by the many miles he walked in them. He was obviously the richest man in the world. Not by having a lot of money, but by experience. He had a lot of that. My gaze traveled up to his eyes and suddenly we were locked in a dead stare. Green, with flecks of brown, almost like gold, yes, he was rich.
Whether you are weathered or not, I will always love you.
For I am a weathered soul myself.
A craggy face, full of pits and acne scars like pickpocket reminders from childhood, or the bullet holes of a war with adulthood. He was shy, and soft, like a deer, and his eyes were the biggest and dampest blue you had ever seen, like a doe. I was surprised not to see his skin dappled, his cheeks drinking in forest sunlight, his feet hooves.
Her face was weathered, wind-blown and sunburned. Years of toil and hardship written in the crags and crevices of her face.
I don’t know where I am, but the weather is very bad… It is dark, but I can feel the raindrops heavily falling on my shoulders. My jeans jacket is thick, but I still can feel it.
and worn and tired
just so tired
can’t really function anymore
the floor is rotted
the roof is caving in
can’t really function anymore
the end is coming
what’s there to say
this house is weathered and
the fisherman had the red ruddy face which was well weathered from the salt spray of his life on the ocean it became him it marked who he was and that he could take all that life threw at him
It’s cold outside.
I miss the heat.
But when the heat comes,
it comes with defeat.
It’s hot outside.
And I’m on the tile floor.
I keep thinking,
“Maybe it’ll be over soon.”
Nevermore.
I am never weathered.
Nor happy with the weather.
Chips of stone torn from the jaws of a once powerful gargoyle. It overlooks the streets, a bit weathered by now. An audience to the urban dirge, an elegy of his city’s gradual decay.
The tree hadnt moved for years. Not to sway in the wind and definitly not to fall over. it ahd withstoo
I stood upon the weathered stone and waited for the ocean air to hit me from the left, cooling the aches in my shoulder and elbow as I tried to forget the very concept of pain. It occurred to me that the walk to the shore had taken two hours, and my small village was nothing but a distant shadow behind me. The Atlantic was the only thing separating me from another continent, and I wished dearly that I had the endurance to swim the entire way across it.
By the look on her face, I could tell she had been out all night. Her hair was all over the place and her smile was weathered. I thought I knew her but with this small action, I knew all of my opinions about her where wrong.
My soul is weathered much like that of the stone walls of Stone Henge. Through years of hardship I have overcome and made my path as it needs to be. I will continue to wash away the erosion and become the person I’m destined to be.
Been rain after snow and a dust wind that blows.
across old rust and slow as the roads,
I’ve been out here so long.
With the moon singing songs
with a flowing sound soothing the woes
Dried, cracked boughs
Time’s slowing down
Lines of my brow reading old prose
And the sun bows low
sweeping beneath my toes
climbing to rise just once more
Tears welled in Mari’s eyes, her heart ready to burst with excitement, as she sat down on the couch and ran her hand over the weathered black book. Oh, how she’d spent years searching for something that meant so little to others but everything to her and her family. “I can’t believe I found it,” She whispered, adding a little laugh, as she put a hand over her heart. Maybe know she’d know why her father had insisted on her finding it after he passed away.
A beat of silence, then: “Gosh, open it, sis!” from her brother Laurie, always hyper about one thing or another.
Mari laughed again, carefully flipping to the first page—the words “DEATH HAS FOUND YOU” scrawled in red over the first entry chilling she and Laurie to the bone.
My body is weathered.
When I think of you again, under the lilac bush
I will retreat back into my shell of thinking you were the one.
Each night before going to bed I will pray the rosary
hoping you’ll find you’re way back to me.
Soon even then I will convince myself that it is only the summer heat.
You are no longer what controls me, it is different now.
That night i will pray the rosary ten times hoping you’ll get lost.
I saw a hummingbird once. It reminded me of the day my sister read me poems and we drank sweet tea. When I was careless. Content. Now the tea seems too sweet. I am not myself anymore. I am weathered. Dark Purple, Bruised but not beaten. Lost without dismay. And I like it. For a split second I think This is it. This is who I really am. But then I see you in school; You were my best. My worst. We sold the bench we sat at. The grass doesn’t grow there anymore. I don’t grow anymore, for I am stunted.
She came across an old house, it was dark, damp and weathered. She wandered inside to see if he was in there, she searched all over but she couldn’t find him. Then there it was, she saw it. The monster.
With weathered determination, her last tear and faint heart signified that she had finally given up, only to realize that the thing she wanted all along merely required that she simply take one more step. Don’t give up.
I thought about my lonely nights as a child. My mom was still at work but she tried not to stay too long. It didn’t work out as she planned all the time. So my childhood was lonely most of the time. Sometimes I looked out of my tiny window and thought to myself:
Emma ran her fingers over the stone, feeling how aged it was. It was weathered down a consistentency where it almost felt soft to the touch despite being solid rock. She found herself wondering how long this person had been dead – certainly the tombstone had been around for long enough for it to have gotten to this point. With a sigh, she looked down. Maybe this would be suitable for her sketch.
It was as if the stars had blown their curtains on the leaves. The window did not display any emotion so far. The edges roared on the silken mouths, and somebody shouted out the paradigms of being a triangle, How can toes shape the movement of our feet?
His weathered hands held a wailing infant girl. Her eyes shone blue as they swelled over with tears. Her tiny fist swung, but the old man’s strong grasp held her securely.
“‘Weathered.’ Huh. Not the best term to describe it. Especially when referring to actual weather. Well, it’s your show, not mine. I don’t make the decisions. Weathered it is!”