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anonymous May 5
I am a seamstress
stitching life together in harmony
creating beauty every place my needle breaches
You are the weaver
you dart in and out of lives
loosely dragging us along
to the knotted finish line
weaver and seamstress met
and you are persuasive
performing the drama
and I believed
seamstress and weaver could create
a masterpiece so fine
to last for all our days
and yet
you have taken your dagger through our greatest tapestry
destroyed what I had birthed
you laugh because you do not know
the seamstress's needle knows no bounds
and your eyes
always too far apart
please give me validation I'm sad... jkjk... unless?
Star BG Feb 2019
And as I sit writing
I open my box of filament infused phases.
I thread my needle like pen
and scribe in delicate script
making sure each stitch is
divinely placed.

I am a seamstress poet, my wares being poems
carefully sewn onto colorful twine.
Care to wear them behind eyes. They fit snug
and are oh so delicate and soft.
inspired by HG  Thanks
Rebekah Guindi Sep 2018
You spin my flaws into gold and make my compulsions into beautiful quilts -- each pattern complicated and strange

Seamstress, why do you spin even my most troublesome features into exquisite works?

For even my lies are crafted into lace.
Rebel Heart May 2017
You called me an artist
With a broken down soul
So when did I become your seamstress
And someone you thought you could control?

Trying to sew together these pieces
Of your broken down heart.
But who's going to be there for me
Deep in the night when I fall apart?

I'm just held together by band-aids
That you would call plastic smiles
Simply dressed in faux happiness
That you would call a style.

Eyes twinkling in a pool of lies
While my demons fight within
Adding a fake skip to my stride
While hiding these cuts on my skin.

But tonight,
The shards from my empty,
broken down heart
Are cutting in way too deep

And tonight,
The echoes in my empty,
broken down walls
Are screaming too loud to sleep.

So as I toss and turn tonight
In this endless infinite beat
Where are you now darling
As I'm alone crying in my sheets

And one thing is for sure
Never again will we meet
Because only one thing is for sure
This history always repeats
Still needs to be edited and any comments/suggestions are welcome :)
Lauren Michaud Aug 2015
The wind used to howl,
but now it only cries.
The poignant sting of snow
used to ambush my eyes.

With Fall and Winter in a blur
all year is Summer and Spring.
I used to walk, walk with you
be pushed in a kiddie swing.

The geese were more afraid of me
than I was ever of them.
Oh, Memére,
how I miss the days together we would spend.

The sun still scorches,
but not as sweet,
as clouded with young eyes

You can’t compare a tropic spring
to dusted Autumn skies.

The pumpkins red,
lit up at night,
would glow upon your face.

In winter,
every snowflake seemed
to find its perfect place-
upon your window,
lit up with care,

those glowing,
plastic candles.
They’ve faded as the years have passed,
like sun-bleached, light-pink, sandles.

You’ve been lost,
like an age-pulled button.
Your stings have not held,
Your mind forgotten.

So I dig, I dig, through your sewing kit,
to stitch you back together.
At least for my own memory,
so I can remember forever.

Somehow I’m not as nimble,
somehow just not as quick.
I couldn’t find the seamstress in me
once you’d fallen sick.

I pump, I pump
the metal petal,
to piece you back together.
That button used so many times
in deadly, freezing, weather.

Somehow you slipped,
not just through my fingers,
but in a dreadful way, where the soul seldom lingers.

You just got worse
I cried to find
that stinking button
that was on my mind.

The final piece that would solve the puzzle
fix a confused mind,
your struggle.

Now I see,
now that you’re gone,
that I had had it all along.

The key, the clue, that wretched button.
And then it hit me,
all of a sudden.

Those trembling geese, the Autumn skies,
the snowflakes that had stung my eyes.

Those things are all I really need
to make sure your heart still beats.

Your eyes,
your chin,
your soft, thin hair,
all the answers
were always there.

Now whenever I miss you,
these gems of memories,
they pull me through.
In loving memory of Julie Michaud: a wife, mother, grandmother, great-grandmother, and talented seamstress whom we all loved dearly.
Marlena R Aug 2015
My eyes to Slava my seamstress say,

"I'm begging you,
sew me a new skin
here
in your living room
to hold me together now
because I can't seem to anymore...

Dear Slava,
I know you know,
how the thoughts inside me
are crazed,
you've known my childhood days &
it's not me here.
Who's this dead thing in the living room?

I feel the bones inside me,
they're too loose.
You see me falling apart,
these eyes of mine the noose.
Catch me dear friend,
from myself!
I'm begging you,
change this stitch in time
for me?

— The End —