#sewing
I know that there was a line that I sewn upon my skin
Thread made of emotions that I couldn’t hold on to
They slipped and slid and came out of my grasp
And if I tried to lock them away, they’d easily undo the clasp
I sit at a wheel, my finger at a thorn,
Spinning roses, and flowers, and threads for toys
If I can create something, something to be kept,
Would I someday find these things again and learn to accept?
Or would the thread someday fade and unwind behind the scenes
Undoing in the corners, ripping the seams
Things like these, I know, weren’t meant to last forever
They were meant to be loved, cared for, watched, and maintained.
But if I cannot move myself from this bed,
And catch the hands of the monster speaking in my head
Would I be able to learn how to thread the eye of the needle
So I could learn to love again?
Sep 10, 2025
Sep 10, 2025 at 11:47 AM UTC
The scalpel is much like the pen,
In the hands of caring & skilled surgeons.
Tuna, Sturgeon, Trout.
If you loosed a seam
Stitch it or cauterize it - heal it,
Otherwise it's all down-stream.
If you offend,
Make right by making amends;
You are stricken by lightning.
If you misrepresent,
Apologize & correct your error by proper interpretation
Or to the caves be sent!
Judge not the judges,
For you are one & this inclination is only a natural one,
Lest you receive an unjust verdict.
Jul 9, 2025
Jul 9, 2025 at 1:18 PM UTC
Though thimbles are rigid and heavy and tight
Getting gouged by pins is no delight.
A finger jabbed enough
Gets calloused, horned, and tough,
But why suffer needless pain from spite?
Jul 30, 2024
Jul 30, 2024 at 1:21 PM UTC
My grandmother sticks sewing pins in the walls
Sharp, invisible pins with the bulbs sticking out
She claims they moved there by themselves
True, I’ve never seen her do it-
But there’re needles in the floor
Tiny, sinister needles with the smallest eyes
She says she doesn’t mind them
Slides on her black slippers
And she walks
Jan 3, 2021
Jan 3, 2021 at 1:58 AM UTC
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?
Sep 28, 2020
Sep 28, 2020 at 12:30 AM UTC
*
*Sigh with every stitch
Her hands soft with abundance
Smiles with sweet prosper*
*
Aug 22, 2020
Aug 22, 2020 at 3:49 PM UTC
Dripping in warmth, she took it back
It does not matter, does it?
A warm, plaid flannel
from someone she sent away?
It is swallowed by the threads of her thoughts
and holds spools of nights thinking about her fabricated personality
was she cut out to be a seamstress?
She could never tell, but whats the use?
She's tangled anyways
May 4, 2020
May 4, 2020 at 1:24 AM UTC
A serial killer,
hangs up his hatchet...
To scared of a cough to indulge,
in a fulfilment of a hobby..
Takes up sewing...
Apr 25, 2020
Apr 25, 2020 at 5:41 PM UTC
Taffeta watches the pigs atop the tables
Glass eyes and stitches where they're enabled
Guts pumping crimson liquid
Sewing 'em up, she's addicted
Family and friends recommend she withdraw
She responded with a twinkle in her eye and a dropped jaw
Scissors and string, that's all she'll need
Besides a corpse, of course, and a bit of stuffing
Lilac eyes affixed on a tattered pillow
Enjoying watching a weeping Willow
Her poor Porky pet has met his end
But everyone knows you can depend
Before your sweet pet starts to smell
On Taffeta's Taxidermy to stuff 'em well
Apr 17, 2020
Apr 17, 2020 at 4:29 PM UTC
Sowing seeds become
a flowing blanket
of flowers to warm eyes
like... sewing stitches becomes
a blanket of warmth for self.
Apr 20, 2019
Apr 20, 2019 at 9:02 AM UTC
The story of you is a tale of woe—
I collected her things, all safely been stown.
When we first met, my mother taught me to sew,
and with your blood, I must let her go.
Apr 8, 2019
Apr 8, 2019 at 12:36 PM UTC
There's a pretty purple floating tissue,
A winter coat that I have made for you,
To keep you warm and happy someday you'll be freezing.
There's a weaving of friendship at the sleeves,
And a few kind wishes for you to live,
Hidden in the creases on the strings under your head.
The lining is no gold,
I sewed as I was told,
But I made it yours only.
And you can make it black,
And you can make it crack,
But it will be yours only.
Embroidements of laughter at the seams,
Tainted with your words and voice in my dreams,
To keep your lips and eyes pleated and sparkling.
You can wear it whenever you feel cold,
The silk gets better when it's growing old,
And be sure the shades of your heart and his won't fade.
The lining is my heart,
You wore it from the start,
And you made it yours only.
And I could keep it there,
And I could give or share,
But it will be yours only.
So come out in the snow walking on your hands,
I will try to keep you warm 'til the end,
This coat is the love I have sewed for you, my friend.
Dec 10, 2018
Dec 10, 2018 at 12:25 PM UTC
Life is not a tapestry
It is a single thread
The people are the knots and kinks
Who just get in the way of things
Of Mother Earth's sewing machine
Sep 18, 2018
Sep 18, 2018 at 7:15 PM UTC
My mind is a web of
Silk
and String
That I cannot fathom into a
Tapestry
Jul 31, 2018
Jul 31, 2018 at 3:17 AM UTC
Watch as she holds her gold needle
in the half-light
attaching a soul to the blossom's shell
and ensure that their dreams
and their lives don't fade
So their tongues and music
will last forever
Watch as she pulls her golden thread
The petals curl, revealing the beauty of
flush-kissed shoulders within
Sweetened with the fragrance of love
and care
Painted with colours that give our
senses love and rest
Watch as she pokes at the roses
and their thorns sprout
A rose extends their blades
to shield their beauty
Watch as she cuts her gold thread
and it whips around in the wind
As the earth erupts in joyous laughter
far and wide,
flowers adorns all that it touches
From the babbling brooks to fields,
From our parks to the mountain tops
How the Golden Thread can be sewn
and sprout the soul of music,
fragrance and purity.
May 26, 2018
May 26, 2018 at 1:22 PM UTC
What is that which looms on the horizon?
My own response so carefully crafted.
Designs that I have embroidered eyes in
to see my own hand-sewn chaos drafted.
Your stitch-in, flowery language lacks work
and your seams seem to lack proper binding.
My dear, I can't accept mangled patchwork,
it's clear that you needle more reminding.
It's funny how you tailored your response,
yet you didn't know of the fabric's face
that laughed as you fabricate and ensconce
yourself in lies as delicate as lace.
You have barely weaved a good running stitch
Don't curse the seamstress who seems less stressed, witch.
Mar 28, 2018
Mar 28, 2018 at 9:53 PM UTC
Sometimes there's a seamstress sewing in my head
Quilting batted blankets of existential dread
Comforters and covers cover all of our cold dead
They're neatly surged and finished in copper linen thread
Feb 22, 2018
Feb 22, 2018 at 1:19 PM UTC