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Indigo Morrison Aug 2019
...trying to take this heart,
this healing,
all this fragile,
day by day
task by task.
a new getting out of bed.

some days I am still healing,
the wound has just
opened back up for me
and I’m stitching,
I’m breathing,
I’m moving always,
but standing still. does not negate the other for me.
but I am here
and I love you.
TD Jul 2018
Tattered quilt
textured patches
form a storyline
I hesitate to trace.

The sordid tales
unevenly sewn
binding or freeing
the choice is mine.

Silk and cotton
gingham hearts
satin overlay
my patterns reveal.

Sad days are bound
by crooked seams
playing hide and seek
where seekers always find
my peekaboo batting.

Happy days are simple.
Scars, stitches
hold satin warmth
bathed in beautiful..
imperfect but true.

I nestle in beneath
the crazy quilt work of a life
patterned after winding paths
and sleeping giants.
Lyn-Purcell Jun 2018
Fellow logophiles,
let us grab the silk and stitch
the words.

For we have that power
to move the Heaven and
Words are beautiful by nature, by creation.
It's how we use that can add beauty of ugliness to this world.

Short poem, but honest.
Be back soon!
Lyn x
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

Amy I Hughes Sep 2017
The girl hums happily, stitching the ragdoll back together.
Spools and needles lay around her, ready as ever.

Every morning she threads a needle and stuffs back the cotton.
Smiling to herself whilst looping the pretty buttons.

Each night is the same as the young girl sleeps.
The ragdoll awakens and from the bed she leaps.

She tears at her stitching and yanks out the cotton.
Pulls her limbs away and prays to lay there forgotten.

But the girl never forgets and at every dawn,
gathers the doll up with a smile and a yawn.

''Oh ragdoll, every night you do the same thing.
Tear yourself up limb from limb.

You don't think you're special or worthy or loved.
At the bottom of every pile of dolls, you've been shoved.

But I will keep stitching you back up until you see,
just how much you really mean to me.'
Nik Jun 2016
do not weave me into your poetry.
the needle hurts,
the yarn itches,
your words swarm my head with lies.
your bittersweet poetry-
all a show.
your words create illusions.
i will not allow you to try to create me as your own masterpiece
when i am my own destruction.

— The End —