Didn’t you know
that mountains are formed
by plates pressing against another
so forcibly
so hurtfully
they push up the crust of the earth
to make
you. You with
your weathered arms
and tired tired
eyes – those cheeks
don’t soften
like they used to.
You are not broken,
my dear, you are breaking.
Breaking
into mountains bigger
than anyone else.
lost and confused
in a wild daze
I can feel people are watching
but all I see is gray
look through the fog
people everywhere
surrounding my weathered frizz that would dare to be called hair
feeling claustrophobic
they’re coming at me know
they want to know my experiences for manipulation, but I remain mysteriously weathered
and weathered I will always be
I’m weathered
I’m distraught
I will never ever be caught
Taken away
From the world
“That weird, mistaken girl”
I am none of those things
It had to be done
It’s better now
I’m finally loved
The weathered wooden bench hosted a couple of pigeons.
Roger came and sat on it. He opened his favourite sandwich and bit off a piece. A few crumbs fell of. Then he saw it. R loves G.
Her face was no longer smooth and dewy, but weathered by sun and wind. There were creases around her eyes, on her brow and at the corners of her mouth. But her blue eyes still sparkled with the fierce light of her youth.
Tamara lifted her feet in the air as the bike sailed downhill. Blurry dots with loud engines zoomed past like strobe lights. No helmet, first gear, no control. She laughed as her fear raced to catch up to the speed. Brake. You should really brake, she thought. The loud horn of a sixteen wheeler roared behind her. She put her feet back on the pedals and gripped the weathered handle break. Nothing changed.
The skin of his face and hands was dark and weathered, aged like leather, and his eyes, dark and perilous as the sea, had seen more than any being should. “Welcome, Sonja,” he said, spreading his arms wide. “Come, please, sit,”
I did so, fixing him with a look of suspicion laced curiosity. “How did you know my name?”
Each day we pray the weathered barn will fall, of its own accord and not at anyone’s hand; certainly not by ours. We watch through curtains mildewed and thick, hoping for the vibration that will tell us the boards are giving way. Some afternoon, some sweet afternoon, the barn may fall. And on that day, Diana, and all of us, will shudder with relief at the abattoir of our elders having finally turned to dust.
We made it, we have weathered the storms, and with God’s help our souls shall rejoice as we witness the birth of yet another milestone as we celebrate another forty eight years.
it was weathered, it emitted a typical kind of a smell that bothered me. “Mom? should i put it outside?” i screamed. “yes, honey” she yelled back. it was disgusting, having to do all the household work myself.
They appeared in a field, where a lonesome house sat, and there they found her. She was covered in twigs and leaves, face weathered by the breeze. It was the state of utter happiness that she embodied.
The old mans face was weathered from a hard life at sea. He had been fishing since he was a boy of 12 and had risen every morning at 5.30 to greet the sun.
sometimes I see words that look like other words and become befuddled by the experience. Weathered is a word that made me remember the weather, which brings me back to a time where I was stuck waiting for a bus in the freezing cold without adequate clothing. It was a daunting experience.
That’s what she thinks when she looks at him sometimes, when he’s in one of his moods, furiously scribbling in a Moleskine notebook and spitting beats beneath his breath, in an endless state of creation. He writes and raps about the things he won’t speak of. Can’t speak of. He writes and raps about everything his face shows, but his lips refuse to acknowledge.
She loves every crinkle in his forehead and the tortured tenor of his voice even if she doesn’t understand it and doesn’t think she ever will.
weathered sound like the word weather. It might not be the same but it sound similar. When this is over I will look up weathered and find out I really know what it mean, but at the moment im tired.
The wind ate off mother Mary’s nose, the crisp edges of her elbow. I like her better this way, but I’m careful not to tell you this, not even with my eyes. I see you brush your fingers along her bare stone foot as we pass. You want to put bread there for her angels, I know it. I bite my tongue and taste no bread but my own blood.
The weathered statue was right in place in the cold, unkind city. It was once beautiful, but it was in such an odd place nobody bothered to upkeep it anymore. It was a kind of cement, and really well painted. Unfortunately, certain parts that people might find attractive were touched way too much, causing the paint.to peel off much faster than anywhere else. The bottom seemed to have been pissed on by god knows who too many times, because it was a visible, nasty yellow.
So this is the memorial statue for my great grand mother
Susan picked up a few more wooden planks that were weathered and warped by the violent storm the previous night, tossing them into the back of the truck. She sighed, pushing her red hair behind her ear. “Austin, how much more do we have to do?”
Austin emerged from the garage, sweat glistening off his bare chest. “Not much, but I was going to get the cleaning stuff. Why? You tired?”
She nodded, sitting down on an upside-down bucket. “A little, yeah.” Her eyes scanned over his toned abs, just for a second, before meeting his eyes again. But a smirk was touching his lips and she knew she’d been caught—again.
“Like what you see? Gotta give me cash if you want more.” He said with a chuckle, teasing her as usual. Her cheeks flushed as she stifled a giggle; oh, how she wanted to kiss him…
The once white, smooth walls of the outside of the house were now rough, and the paint was slowly peeling down. As a strong wind blew, small flakes of white scattered through the air around the building. He didn’t now what to feel about the state of the place, that he, they, once shared their precious and bittersweet young adult years. It was amusing; the outside of the house was slowly weathering, just like how their relationship slowly weathered in the long, unforgettable summer of that year.
As if all of this wasn’t enough, after the break up, after the losing of the one thing that was most precious to her, her trusty old bike. Now this crazy text comes “how are you?” he asks. That’s crazy. I guess to a 20 year old, all of this stuff does make you feel as if you were pretty weathered. Even though it was all overwhelming she suddenly felt like going through this had made her old and wise, and what was left to do? start a blog!
as if all of this wasn’t enough, after the break up, after the losing of the one thing that was most precious to her, her trusty old bike. Now this crazy text comes “how are you?” he asks. That’s crazy. I guess to a 20 year old, all of this stuff does make you feel as if you were pretty weathered. Even though it was all overwhelming she suddenly felt like going through this had made her old and wise, and what was left to do? start a blog!
The top of that old boat used to be in great shape. The cover of it, I mean. It used to be beautiful – it used to make it look clean, presentable… worth something. That was years ago now, though. So many years ago I can’t remember just how many. It was when I used to shop for jewlery in flea markets on Sunday mornings – not in the gift shop downstairs.
Lyrics never weathered well after a time, their pace and rhyme like sands through an hourglass. The only thing I can remember in this very moment is the line, “I will never be a hologram.”
The old barn had a weathered look. It looked lived in and comfortable. The wood was gray with time and well tended anumals.
Didn’t you know
that mountains are formed
by plates pressing against another
so forcibly
so hurtfully
they push up the crust of the earth
to make
you. You with
your weathered arms
and tired tired
eyes – those cheeks
don’t soften
like they used to.
You are not broken,
my dear, you are breaking.
Breaking
into mountains bigger
than anyone else.
some are so beaten up you can tell it from their eyes, and perhaps the slight smile. no one looks beyond and the grey hair may be genetic
lost and confused
in a wild daze
I can feel people are watching
but all I see is gray
look through the fog
people everywhere
surrounding my weathered frizz that would dare to be called hair
feeling claustrophobic
they’re coming at me know
they want to know my experiences for manipulation, but I remain mysteriously weathered
and weathered I will always be
I’m weathered
I’m distraught
I will never ever be caught
Taken away
From the world
“That weird, mistaken girl”
I am none of those things
It had to be done
It’s better now
I’m finally loved
The desolate tree.
Dry and weathered.
A lonely lamb.
To it is tethered.
The weathered wooden bench hosted a couple of pigeons.
Roger came and sat on it. He opened his favourite sandwich and bit off a piece. A few crumbs fell of. Then he saw it. R loves G.
a face of scars
and nasty wounds
a hard chin carved
from glory and doom
the mirror throws back
a glint of tar,
his eyes are black
a face of scars
I
worn and old – i wasn’t like this orginally. I’m used, and I need to be fixed or broken because that’s the only way to… get on with it. y’know?
Her face was no longer smooth and dewy, but weathered by sun and wind. There were creases around her eyes, on her brow and at the corners of her mouth. But her blue eyes still sparkled with the fierce light of her youth.
Tamara lifted her feet in the air as the bike sailed downhill. Blurry dots with loud engines zoomed past like strobe lights. No helmet, first gear, no control. She laughed as her fear raced to catch up to the speed. Brake. You should really brake, she thought. The loud horn of a sixteen wheeler roared behind her. She put her feet back on the pedals and gripped the weathered handle break. Nothing changed.
The garden furniture is looking the worse for wear although it has only been well weathered because it has been outside all winter.
i feel old
older with every day
step by step
wrinkle by wrinkle
i feel old
though I am too young to care
my soul is
weathered.
the sky is feathered with white patches of clouds
my skin is covered in tiny raindrops
and my head is
muddy.
As we approached the old weathered sign to read where we were, we were surrounded by men with guns. It was a trap.
A river runs through the canyon and
Wears down it’s walls
Showing marbled inards
And time within its skin
Then wind blows
And sheets of earth fly off the land
And I to the air
And hit this skin
And pock it like scars
On the face of a child after a rash
The skin of his face and hands was dark and weathered, aged like leather, and his eyes, dark and perilous as the sea, had seen more than any being should. “Welcome, Sonja,” he said, spreading his arms wide. “Come, please, sit,”
I did so, fixing him with a look of suspicion laced curiosity. “How did you know my name?”
Each day we pray the weathered barn will fall, of its own accord and not at anyone’s hand; certainly not by ours. We watch through curtains mildewed and thick, hoping for the vibration that will tell us the boards are giving way. Some afternoon, some sweet afternoon, the barn may fall. And on that day, Diana, and all of us, will shudder with relief at the abattoir of our elders having finally turned to dust.
The expression on her face was fragile and careworn, as if she’d weathered storms that he could not even bear to imagine.
hazel feels tired most of the time. Gus is very tired all the time, all because they both have cancer it weathered them down.
We made it, we have weathered the storms, and with God’s help our souls shall rejoice as we witness the birth of yet another milestone as we celebrate another forty eight years.
it was weathered, it emitted a typical kind of a smell that bothered me. “Mom? should i put it outside?” i screamed. “yes, honey” she yelled back. it was disgusting, having to do all the household work myself.
They appeared in a field, where a lonesome house sat, and there they found her. She was covered in twigs and leaves, face weathered by the breeze. It was the state of utter happiness that she embodied.
The old mans face was weathered from a hard life at sea. He had been fishing since he was a boy of 12 and had risen every morning at 5.30 to greet the sun.
sometimes I see words that look like other words and become befuddled by the experience. Weathered is a word that made me remember the weather, which brings me back to a time where I was stuck waiting for a bus in the freezing cold without adequate clothing. It was a daunting experience.
His skin felt like weathered leather against my own. I gripped his hand tighter. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”
Weathered faces lined in pain.
That’s what she thinks when she looks at him sometimes, when he’s in one of his moods, furiously scribbling in a Moleskine notebook and spitting beats beneath his breath, in an endless state of creation. He writes and raps about the things he won’t speak of. Can’t speak of. He writes and raps about everything his face shows, but his lips refuse to acknowledge.
She loves every crinkle in his forehead and the tortured tenor of his voice even if she doesn’t understand it and doesn’t think she ever will.
What does weathered mean exactly? I am guessing
weathered sound like the word weather. It might not be the same but it sound similar. When this is over I will look up weathered and find out I really know what it mean, but at the moment im tired.
The wind ate off mother Mary’s nose, the crisp edges of her elbow. I like her better this way, but I’m careful not to tell you this, not even with my eyes. I see you brush your fingers along her bare stone foot as we pass. You want to put bread there for her angels, I know it. I bite my tongue and taste no bread but my own blood.
The weathered statue was right in place in the cold, unkind city. It was once beautiful, but it was in such an odd place nobody bothered to upkeep it anymore. It was a kind of cement, and really well painted. Unfortunately, certain parts that people might find attractive were touched way too much, causing the paint.to peel off much faster than anywhere else. The bottom seemed to have been pissed on by god knows who too many times, because it was a visible, nasty yellow.
So this is the memorial statue for my great grand mother
Susan picked up a few more wooden planks that were weathered and warped by the violent storm the previous night, tossing them into the back of the truck. She sighed, pushing her red hair behind her ear. “Austin, how much more do we have to do?”
Austin emerged from the garage, sweat glistening off his bare chest. “Not much, but I was going to get the cleaning stuff. Why? You tired?”
She nodded, sitting down on an upside-down bucket. “A little, yeah.” Her eyes scanned over his toned abs, just for a second, before meeting his eyes again. But a smirk was touching his lips and she knew she’d been caught—again.
“Like what you see? Gotta give me cash if you want more.” He said with a chuckle, teasing her as usual. Her cheeks flushed as she stifled a giggle; oh, how she wanted to kiss him…
The once white, smooth walls of the outside of the house were now rough, and the paint was slowly peeling down. As a strong wind blew, small flakes of white scattered through the air around the building. He didn’t now what to feel about the state of the place, that he, they, once shared their precious and bittersweet young adult years. It was amusing; the outside of the house was slowly weathering, just like how their relationship slowly weathered in the long, unforgettable summer of that year.
As if all of this wasn’t enough, after the break up, after the losing of the one thing that was most precious to her, her trusty old bike. Now this crazy text comes “how are you?” he asks. That’s crazy. I guess to a 20 year old, all of this stuff does make you feel as if you were pretty weathered. Even though it was all overwhelming she suddenly felt like going through this had made her old and wise, and what was left to do? start a blog!
as if all of this wasn’t enough, after the break up, after the losing of the one thing that was most precious to her, her trusty old bike. Now this crazy text comes “how are you?” he asks. That’s crazy. I guess to a 20 year old, all of this stuff does make you feel as if you were pretty weathered. Even though it was all overwhelming she suddenly felt like going through this had made her old and wise, and what was left to do? start a blog!
The top of that old boat used to be in great shape. The cover of it, I mean. It used to be beautiful – it used to make it look clean, presentable… worth something. That was years ago now, though. So many years ago I can’t remember just how many. It was when I used to shop for jewlery in flea markets on Sunday mornings – not in the gift shop downstairs.
Lyrics never weathered well after a time, their pace and rhyme like sands through an hourglass. The only thing I can remember in this very moment is the line, “I will never be a hologram.”
Rocks, soil, air, wood, minerals, color texture.
give me a chance
to overcome my own personal storm.
let me tie down my belongings
and pull up my hood.
hold me tight
so neither of us flies away.