How to Make an Easy Perspective Grid on PhotoshopHello. Are you struggling with perspective and/or making a perspective grid? Well today, I am going to teach you how to make an EASY perspective grid in Adobe Photoshop CS6.
This can work on any Adobe Photoshop Software. And I am also not sure if this'll work with other programs just to clarify.
Open (if you have Photoshop) Photoshop
2. Make any size document you want.
3. Draw a nice straight line in the middle of the canvas or wherever you want it. That'll act as your horizon line!
Horizon Line: The Horizon Line (in Perspective) is the level at where your eyes are focusing. For example
As you can see with this photo, the middle area of the photo is the Horizon Line and you cannot see anything else past it. It's where your eye level is at currently as the clouds above is basically the Worm's Eye View while looking at the road below you is a se
not just a river in Egyptso what
if it is
I think about
or that I've learned
at a distance
if I've been
of your constellations
for a future
that finds you
I'm not in it
Drunk Texts 2 AMhey
i’m in the moonlight again
where it’s “simple”
how you said that
in the morning
when you left?
like bright eyes
wrote that song
to make your excuses for you
i know you’ll say be safe
but i’m out
and it’s dark
‘cause he always says
it’s gonna be wildflowers
and then suddenly i’m choking
maybe i’m drunk again
and the pavement’s wet
it smells like worms
and i forgot my shoes
and it’s fucking cold
there’s massage oil on my thighs
all over my fucking soul
and you know
it’s not like i want to be
crawling back to you
it’s not like i’d be
in this bricked over fireplace
in the first place
if i hadn’t been wandering through
and stumbling into snares
i was never going to be
your fucking stars
but you were mine
you were mine
Make it Sound RomanticMy skeleton is poking
through my skin
and I can’t help but think
“I look fat”.
They say I don’t look
like the pretty girl
I once was but
they don’t understand.
I must not eat
too much so I can
keep losing weight and
I say I have already eaten
and my stomach
doesn’t like that;
but my demon does.
If I twist my words
just right I can almost
make it sound
I am perfectly ordinaryEverything is where it’s supposed to be
So why did you see reason to insult me?
My boobs, are just two hills on my chest
With two things poking up
My nose is singular
In the way it is just there
In the middle of my face
My eyes, two as it should be
Are brown as brown can get
Just like choclat
Hands with fingers
And if you count them:
There are ten
Legs I walk on
And arms to swing around
And feet enough to fit two shoes
My stomach can take everything
From alcohol to chips, carrots, black coffee or tea
A heart that beats and my lungs are pumping
All to make my body warm
So why in the hell did you need to single me out?
Day 17: How To Bury Your MotherStart with the feet; push down
handfuls of earth over stubbed toes
and childhood injuries--
(remember the time she pulled your hair,
called you a bitch and said your father
could never have wanted you).
Press the soil around her calves
and into her knees; let it rest there
as a symbol of the years you parted--
(remember calling her and asking
if she would visit; the way her voice
echoed yours but she never came).
Cup handfuls of dirt and splatter them,
her waist disappearing under the weight
of gravity, just like her abandonment--
(remember wondering if there'd ever be
another place called home; the space
of her now inside you).
Let the ground carve itself, wearing the shape
of her chest, arms by her sides; her heart
invisible, like the way you always felt--
(remember family events you weren't invited
to attend; her mouth hooked in a line
when she said you could have come anyway).
Cover her features one at a time with
lightly sprinkled earth; obliterate her totally
from life, like a ge
To The Men Who Burnt WitchesThere is witchcraft in our blood,
in our bones we carry the magic
that you could not burn away.
You see, fire does not eat fire.
Your mother would have taught you that
if the world hadn’t convinced her
that despite her body being able
to bring life into this world,
she is not a magical thing.
Maybe the witches you burned
were the daughters of something
more holy than you could ever handle.
So you set them alight for being different,
forgetting that even the son of your God
was once condemned for being too pure,
too beautiful, too different for this world.
History devoured your name,
but we have never forgotten
what you did, witch hunter.
You see, fire never forgets.
When you burned the witches
you thought what you did was small.
But the flames gave birth to ideas
and the ideas set alight souls.
For every witch you burned
there are now a thousand witch women
living differently, and standing tall.
And you may have burned some of us,
but you will never destroy us all.
one hell of a yeari. some friends will
help you spread your wings.
they will cheer as they
watch you soar.
never once will they see you as
icarus heading to his death.
those are the ones you keep.
others will rip out your wings to
replace them with ones of
wood, feathers, and wax.
they will shove you up -
up into the sky and
laugh as your erupt into flames.
leave them to burn themselves.
save yourself from getting scorched.
ii. the invisible girl will
force herself to be seen.
it will begin when she
strips herself down.
the vulnerabilities will shine through.
show off every scar, every crack.
she will then dye herself with
her true colors.
blend in pinks, blues, purples.
she will wrap herself in
her flag for comfort.
you will embrace your identity.
iii. you will love,
my god you will love.
how warm your heart will be!
your body, electric.
it's a beautiful feeling.
bottle it up before
the storm clouds roll.
iv. you will break.
A Bad DayWe decided on a hugging policy years ago. Three seconds - counted by rocking to the side - meant everything was fine. Any less, meant he was stressed but didn't want to talk about it; any longer, signalled the need for a good cry.
When he hugged me this morning I lost count at about fifty-five.
Gran-papa's Whiskey - An ANZAC TributeGran-papa’s Whiskey
As I sit here in this lonely chair,
My brothers left long before.
They look at me; the crazy old man,
The one who’s lost his marbles.
I watch all move around me,
So easy it must be for them.
I hear the sirens,
Struggle for the ground.
The nurses. They yell for help,
Again, another sedative.
Don’t they hear them?
Don’t they hear those sirens?
We’re being attacked!
Don’t let me die like this!
They put me back to bed,
The sheets too tight.
My voice lost long ago,
A shell of who I once was.
They don’t see my face,
My eyes show glass, no reflection.
No empathy from those faces,
Nobody respects me anymore…
My son’s family came in today,
My grandson, he calls me gran-papa.
He showed me a picture he drew,
It was a beautiful stallion.
Tears filter down my sagging cheeks,
Nobody understood why.
On that page,
By child’s hand, to perfection.
The same brown coat,
The same white flecks,
The same brigh