to my sleeves
tears soaking
find myself
me'ing me
time hurdles another fence
passport in hand bus stop timed
frequently flown boot soles
composite toed mistletoe
kiss me rosey cheeks
love me dearly
love me
learning to sew


alasia May 2017

Emotions are sewn into every stitch I make as I remember. Crooked like their crooning voices serenading each other under the blanket of black sky. Off track like their entangled limbs. Long like their memories and short like their fights. She blew out birthday candles and I wished he were there: I didn't ask what she wished for. She dons her black sky dress, cradling their moon. She falls apart in the car as she sings alone. They say he is sleeping I know how he slept: beside her, facing her, living only on her breaths. She checks her phone like they are arguing and he has wrote her yet another novel. I sew her dress up to cover her heart so when it explodes she can salvage it later. She says she does not feel the right to cry I say he loved her and we are eclipsed by silence. By our guilt heavy hearts. She put on the dress today and I pray my work is strong enough to hold her body as she splinters. She quivers like the tires on his car when he would drive too fast, she can not touch him but she needs him to hold her. We hold her. She does not want to make a spectacle. We all want to come home to him in our driveway but we know better. My thread has kept her in place for the day: but each stitch in me is unravelling.

Lars Kadel Feb 2017

Instead, I give you

simple tragedies;

how you will
never remember everything
and the more you live the
more there is forgotten.
Sewn optical cords
seeing the reimagined
through blurry suspicion,
stifling doubt, and
bloody buttons.

Metallic words
cutting skin like butter.
The knives will sink
slowly into our
chests and we will be
exactly too far away
from anyone to
do anything about it.

How convenient.

A set of hands,
their cross-stitched fingers
frayed at the ends,
entangling. Still,
they will stumble
to pick up the pieces,
to fix the seaming
in the strings.

Mysidian Bard Jan 2017

It started as a puncture,
but the seam slowly ripped;
a thimble can't protect
from a poison needle tip.

She tried to mend it
by making more holes;
the tear only grew
and grew out of control.

At the spinning wheel
her life would quickly dwindle;
frantic attempts to hem
were depleting the spindle.

What started as a puncture
of seductive sedation
fueled the abuse
of machined perforation.

"Don't mourn a living corpse"
were the last words she said
as she drew the needle
that held the last thread.

Meg Dec 2016

sewing the open wounds shut
hurts just as much
as the wounds themselves

My own family mocks my creations
With my patience wearing thin
I cut the delicate fabric
And wait to sew it back up again
And I repeat these actions
It's an endless battle
Between myself and my family
Can they see the thread?
Can they see the patterns I've created?

boop I'm tired...

hand sewing everything with thread tied in knots
putting patterns in places they don't belong
binding them together in desperation
but it seems the thread of life was unable
to keep my patchwork from tearing apart at the seams

in a club at school we have to creatively express ourselves by writing a poem, drawing, singing, or acting out an emotion. I wanted this to be for sadness but I'd need to add more and I felt it was good like this. maybe this could be stressed out cuz they're trying so hard to put their life back together but nothing seems to work...
Pastell dichter Aug 2016

Stitches |
                                      |in a ripped
   seam of |
                               |a mask.
                                     |and thread
            of a|

A red jumper
in the airing cupboard,
thrown over a pipe,
drooping like it had melted.
“Académie culinaire de Toulouse l’enfant”
on the breast in fractured, iron-on plastic.
It was perfect.

Something that wouldn’t be missed.
I took my sister’s wave-edge scissors to it.
I took it to bits,
all but a jagged circle of a sun
full of furry solar storms
of thread ends.

I ignored the red fluff
falling slowly
like so much bloody snow,
mixing into carpet fibres
under my bare feet.

And my heat
Disperses into invisibility
everything but the colour,
like any memory will.


A green t-shirt,
it looks up at me lostly,
toyishly small,
from some forgotten shop
bought at some forgotten time.
A childhood comfort still smiling
but not soft anymore.

The front’s all robots smashing apart tower blocks
with tin pincers and laser vision.
People’s screams of indicision.
Staticky speech bubbles,
broken car windows,
exclamation marks.

And a Marilyn monroe type
in the midst of the fray,
bra half-undone,
hand cupped to her mouth
Calling into some furious colonised sky
into which I pinned my sun.


A cornish cream baby grow
with grandmother stitched flowers
hours of sowed leaves.
A polka dot horizon
and an orchard's evening shadow
from a lifetime’s washing.
It showed.

So I sowed my mechanical horrors
and it’s crimson fear atmosphere
onto the pastel world.

And now it’s all there.

A poem about how we attach every new experience onto how we see the past and how that might change our feelings of what the world is.
Ciel Nov 2015

Searing pain,
Pins and needles.
Never ending cycle
Of stitching,
Like horrid embroidery
Embedded in my skin
That will forever be
Against my bones

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