tie me up
my insides in knots
how can i tell what is real
and what is not?

my anxiety tightens the bow,
now struggling to breathe
my heart beats fast
and i begin to seethe

the pain of worry
lies deep inside
lacing me up
i've been tied.

A knot work spell is an easy way
To breathe magic into macrame.
An anchor knot for an aid
so I don’t drop my braid.

I try to tie well,
for each knot is a spell
I don’t want to unravel.

Carefully binding
to seal in my intentions.

A mantra, repeated with each loop.

I am loved,
I am loved,
I am loved.

She christened me a sailor.
I didn’t want to be one.
She christened me a sailor.
I didn’t want to be one.
She christened me a sailor.
I didn’t want to be one.
She christened me a sailor.
I didn’t want to be one.
She christened me a sailor.
I didn’t want to be one.
She christened me a sailor.
I did not want to be one.
She christened me a sailor.
I didn’t want to be one.
She christened me a sailor.
I realized how useful knots could be.

I've had a hole
growing in
my stomach for
days.
Butterflies are
wrapped up
in the ribbon
in your
tapes, and
they come inside
and tie
confused
little knots around
my bones.

The little knot
you know the one
it's tied
deep inside
been there for about a year
made up from fear
sometimes you hardly feel it
other times we can't help but reveal it
hard to hide
it's a gradual downward slide
to living with the constant stress
and listlessness
that boredom brings
when our wings
have been stilled
and we are constantly filled
with hope for a time that may never come again
and yet we remain
sane but still tied
by that little knot inside

My gut is in knots;
I feel agitated.
From space jumps? It’s not.
It’s more complicated...

Aboard our starship,
glances we’re stealing.
More than a friendship –
this simple feeling.

The knots know no reason
They come and go
Loosened or tightened
At will or not
They know no reason
For their being
And existence
Depends

The thin glistening needle threads
back and forth,
back and forth.
As the black thread slowly tangles in a knot

It twists and turns through each circle,
creating a lump in the center,
stoping the artist in their track,
forcing them to ponder on the black thread.

Should they continue?
Or should they stop,
cut the string and restart,
unwind new thread,
And strain their eyes again?

Let us momentarily untangle these social knots,
Let us be the rain in this dangerous drought of dreams,
We are better than those garish gambling slots,
We cannot see life's light in their spurious sunbeams.