We had a very happy conversation about family matters.

Mom, Dad. I’m OK.
They’ve been really honest with me
but they’re perfectly willing to die for what they’re doing.
And I want to get out of here
but the only way I’m going to
is if we do it their way.
And I just hope that you’ll do what they say
Dad
and just do it quickly.
I really am alright.
I just hope I can get back to everybody really soon.

My little girl.

Catherine and Randy gave impeccable dinner parties.

I am an Establishment person.

I am being held as a Prisoner of War
and not as anything else.
I mean I am being treated
in accordance with
international codes of war.
I’m not left alone, and I’m not just shoved off somewhere.
I mean, I am fine.

Also, since I am an example
and it’s really important
that everybody understand that
you know,
I am an example and a warning.

And so people should stop acting like I’m dead.

Mom should get out of her black dress,
that doesn’t help at all.
and just hurry.
Bye.

Patty honey I want you to know
that your father is doing everything in his power.
Millions of people all over the world are praying for you
I know it’s been a long time sweetheart
but keep up your courage
and you keep praying
pretty soon god will touch their hearts
and they’ll send you home.

Mom, Dad.
I've been hearing reports about the food program.
So far it sounds like you and your advisors
have managed to turn it into a real disaster.
Anyway, it certainly didn't sound like the kind of food
our family is used to eating.

I called him a couple of weeks ago and said,
Hey, Randy, let's play tennis.
We haven't played tennis in months
and he said
Gosh. I just can't. I'm busy.
I know he's got a lot on his mind,
But, I think he's pretty obsessed with this.

Mom, Dad.
Tell the poor and oppressed people of this nation
what the corporate state is about to do.
Warn Black and poor people
that they are about to be murdered
down to the last man, woman and child.
Tell the people,
Dad
that the removal of expendable excess,
the removal of unneeded people
has already started.

I have chosen to stay and fight.
I have been given the name Tania
after a comrade who fought alongside Che in Bolivia.
It is in the spirit of Tania that I say,
'Patria o Muerte, Venceremos.'

She was one of the prettiest young women south of the Mason‐Dixon line.

Q. Okay. As a matter of fact, when you got to 1827 Golden Gate, or this apartment on
Golden Gate, you were not being held in that closet all the time, were you?
A. Yes, I was.
Q. You were?
A. Yes.
Q. Was there a previous closet in which you were held?
A. Yes.

DEATH TO THE FASCIST INSECT THAT PREYS UPON THE LIFE OF THE PEOPLE

She is a winsome beauty and her sweetness of manner has endeared her to all who know her

Whatever happened to the real men in this world? Men like Clark Gable? No one would have carried off my daughter if there had been a real man there.

She was somewhat of a revolutionary savant.
We kidnapped a freak.
I think that she was spectacular.
At that point, it was against her will to go home.

Q. And you moved in a car, I take it?
A. Yes.
Q. Were you blindfolded?
A. Yes.
Q. And whose car was it, do you know?
A. I don’t know. I was put into a garbage can that was ******* and put in the trunk of the car.
Q. And then, was the garbage can taken into the apartment on Golden Gate when you arrived?
A. Yes.
Q. Were you in it?
A. Yes.
Q. And you were placed in a closet immediately, is that correct?
A. Yes.

I. She’s an amoral person
thought that the rules did not apply to her.
She lied to nuns at school
about her mother having cancer
in order to get out of an exam
engaged in ****** activity
at an early age
and experimented with drugs
such as LSD.

II. Velcro Theory defined the aimless, lost souls
such persons, he said, who float around
in an empty moral space
and then find stuck to them
the first random ideology they bump into.

III. She is a celebrity prisoner of war
but the other thing
is that listening to her voice
is kind of hypnotizing
and not at all unpleasant
she speaks in this whisper
the well-enunciated voice
that someone called
the rich girl’s voice
The eerie voice of an heiress
and it's hard not to admire her composure
considering the ordeal she just went through.

We didn't know whether we were looking at a live girl or a robot.

Greetings to the people.
This is Tania.
Gabi crouched low with her *** to the ground.
Perfect love and perfect hate reflected in stone cold eyes.
To shoot first and make sure the pig is dead before splitting.
I died in that fire on 54th Street,
but out of the ashes I was reborn.
I know what I have to do.

Catherine was mentally and physically exhausted after the kidnapping. No wonder she developed a drinking problem.

Q. Okay. And is it true, Miss Hearst,
that you in the presence of Thomas Mathews ejected a live round from the M-I
that you had near you
and inserted that in the clip,
and put the clip back in the weapon?
A. I don't recall, it is possible.
Q. It is possible you may have.
And did you, in fact, also at that time
load a couple of live rounds
into the chamber of a revolver, a pistol?
A. I don't recall.
Q. Did you give Bill Harris a pistol
in the presence a Tomas Mathews?
A. I don't recall.
Q. You don't recall?
A. No.

I’ll think of it all tomorrow—I can stand it then.

I think this has been extremely ******* her
She's what the kids call ‘spaced out.’
Her religion holds her together.
And when you talk to her,
you see reality escapes her.
All she can say is that people are
‘persecuting’ Patty.
That's the word she uses,
‘persecution.’
We all love Patty,
and God knows she's had a terrible time,
but the whole complexity of the situation
seems to escape Catherine.

You're being told this
so you'll understand why I was kidnapped.
The S.L.A. has declared
war against the Government
I'm telling you now why this happened
so that you'll know
so that you'll have
something to use,
the knowledge
to try to get me out of here.
Bye.

I’m the happiest mother in the whole world.

I hope that you'll make sure that they don't do anything else like that Oakland business.

Q. Do you recall you spoke those words, Miss Hearst?
A. Can I see the transcript?

I don't believe Patty's legal problems are that serious. After all, she's primarily a kidnap victim. She never went off and did anything of her own free will.

From the moment I was kidnapped,
they consistently attempted to
discredit the revolutionaries.
After the first communique was received,
the pigs reacted by hauling out the stress machines.
The machines indicated I was being tortured
and kept awake 24 hours a day.
I guess that all the pigs expected me
to keep my mouth shut,
but I was furious.
They put away their trickology for a while.
If you believe the media,
you'd think I was totally weird.
According to them, I never mean anything.

Catherine, while still blond and attractive, has aged around the corners of the eyes.

Greetings to the people,
this is Tania.
Our actions of April 15
forced the Corporate State
to help finance the revolution.
As for being brainwashed,
the idea is ridiculous beyond belief.
I am a soldier in the People's Army.

I am Tania and We are not fooling around.

What could have been a tremendous instrument for change—Patty's kidnapping—has failed, and their old attitudes toward life—I guess it's called ‘conservatism’—are back

The kids who went to public schools
were not the kind of people
we should have close associations with.
As a result, I spent twelve years
almost totally surrounded by young people
who were busily developing
ruling class aspirations.

She has nowhere to go,
as resulted in only a change of captors.
But at least now,
as long as society is her
captor,
she does not have to worry about being killed.
Freedom may be a more awesome
alternative
-- you are not here to decide that.
We have a framework,
the SLA predicted this trial.
If we can't break the chain
at some point in their predictions,
there are going to be other Patricia Hearsts,
the blueprint is plain,
it works

A year and a half after her kidnapping,
she's in the safe arms of the law.
So, what does she do?
Patty gives the revolutionary salute,
even when she's in handcuffs.
And when she's booked,
she's asked her occupation
and what does she say?
Urban guerilla.

Bailey, I just –
I don't know him,
you know,
like he just kind of drifts in
and you know,
says blah, blah, blah
and I just go,
oh,
okay.

It was never true that our objective was to reconvert her.

You can almost see how Patty couldn’t relate to her—you know, trying to be so self-righteous and so upright.

Well, I always knew
that the Lord was in my life,
kind of on my shoulder.
I started to stray off
I always knew His hand
was there to bring me back.
I got to the house,
put my bags down in the entry,
went right to the kitchen
and the first thought on my heart was
I need to hear Jesus.
I picked up that Bible
and started in Matthew 1:1.
For that whole five days
I read and cried
and read and cried.

In short order, she returned to being the Patty Hearst of Hillsborough, California, the heiress herself.

It's kind of fun because back then,
there's nothing else to do but paint your nails.
It's really exciting.
I have been crocheting now.
At least, my mother came in and she asked –
she had asked me,
about my hair,
you know,
like
can I change it back?
She asked if there was a beauty parlor.

Her eyes are,
for the most part,
downcast,
as if she were sharing a secret with
herself.

She’s such a devoted, old-fashioned Southern lady, that we just died watching her facade break. That hysteria wasn’t just grief that Patty was gone—it was guilt, you know, ‘What have I done wrong?’

I'm being treated in accordance
with the Geneva Convention
and one of the conditions being
that I am not being tried
for crimes which I'm not responsible for.
I'm here because
I'm a member of a ruling class family,
and I think you can begin to see the analogy.

She writes these dramatic
love letters to her boyfriend saying,
"I want to keep up the fight for the revolution."
And she wants to overthrow the government in America,
which she spells A-M-E-R-I-K-K-K-A.

Q. And you were reading a paper, were you not, when they were in the store?
A. Yes.
Q. And you looked up from that paper, did you not, and you saw that William Harris was being held on the ground by someone and being detained, isn’t that true?
A. Yes.
Q. And you picked up an automatic weapon and shot in the direction of Mel’s Sporting Goods Store?

OBJECTION

I have a really nice brown pantsuit.
Al got it.
He has really good taste.

Trish Tobin
is telling her
that she is about to head off to Switzerland
to go skiing for three weeks.
I mean,
so what you have
in this compressed circumstance
is the old life skiing in Switzerland
for three weeks,
and Patty is saying,
I've got a life now.
I've got a new life.

The Hearsts are really ramping up for this one.
He is a bright guy,
but in terms of just his manner and his dress,
you couldn't help but be struck by
how square he was.

Q: I've become conscious and can never go back to the life we had before." Do you recall saying those words?
A: I don’t recall seeing a transcript of that tape.

I have chosen to stay and fight.

She is still an uncommonly handsome woman, prettier in fact than any of her daughters.

It’s a miracle she survived at all.
The ordeal nearly killed me,
Mrs. Hearst once admitted and,
asked what sustained her,
she answers instantly: My religion.
Yet her victory over despair
sometimes seems more apparent than real.
After her divorce, she moved to Beverly Hills,
where she supported Catholic causes
and joined the Beverly Hills Garden Club.

I just want to tell you like, my politics are real different from way back when.
Obviously, right.

Q. Is it not true that you ejected
from your automatic weapon
a live round and placed into it
an additional clip?
A. I did not have an automatic weapon.
Q. You did not?
A. No.
Q. What type of weapon did you have?
A. It was an M-I carbine.

She’s a victim of thought control by terrorists. And all I can do is hope and pray that God will bring her home again.

She was de-programmed and de-radicalized,
returned to the persona
more similar to what she was
She was essentially brainwashed
by her side team and her lawyers.
By the time she walked into the courtroom,
nail polish,
nice pair of shoes,
very well dressed,
it was impressive.

I'm terribly happy. More happy than predacious.
Do you have any notion what you'll say to her when you see her?
I'll tell her I love her.
Are there questions that you want to ask her?
No questions in my mind.


I want to see my parents, and my sisters... I'm really happy to be going home.

Bride Abbey Ramirez-Bodley looked for a vintage-style wedding gown, but soon realized everything she liked was over $1,000.

So instead, she took matters into her own hands -- literally -- and decided to crochet a long-sleeved dress for her October 27 wedding in Parkerfield, Kansas. It took eight months to complete and cost about $70 for the yarn and $100 for the green dress underneath.

When Abbey was 3 years old, her aunt Jennifer Wollard taught her how to crochet. Growing up, she would help her aunt with various projects. All these years later, they teamed up once again to create Abbey's dream dress.

"It was wonderful because my aunt and I spent so much time together and she's really important to me," the bride told The Huffington Post. "This is always a piece I'll have with her. When I look at it, I'll remember the wonderful wedding I had and also the eight months I got to spend with my aunt making it."

On weekdays, Abbey and her aunt would work on the individual doilies by themselves; they got together on weekends to stitch them together.

A month before the wedding, Abbey finally tried on the finished product.

"When I put it on, I was, for one, amazed that it looked exactly like what I thought it would look like in my head," she told HuffPost. "We didn't have a pattern so it was hard -- I couldn't take the image I had in my head and give it to my aunt and say, 'This is what I want.' It was amazing. It was emotional. [Especially] when you put that much time and love into something."

Abbey's husband Jake Bodley saw her working on the dress in the months leading up to the wedding but didn't see the finished product until their big day.

"He was really impressed," Abbey said. "He knew we would get it done, but I think he was worried about us getting it done in time and he wasn't sure if it was going to work like I thought it would. It was a new thing for him. But he was amazed by the final product."

read more:www.marieaustralia.com/pink-formal-dresses

www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-canberra

Like an alien in a spotlight
With her magnifying glasses on
My mother as she worked, up all night
Did invisible weaving till dawn

I would watch her when I couldn’t sleep
Honing in on that hole in the suit
Intently, her concentration deep
Weaving tiny threads enlarged like jute

In other-worldly light she labored
I was afraid she’d lose her eyesight
Watching her focus never wavered
Her face all aglow in the lamplight

Invisible weaving, I inquired
How tediously she plied her craft
Worked for the money that she required
Made the warp and weft of fabric last

Reconstruction, undetectable
No more burn, or tear, or fabric blight
Weaving magic so incredible
Its wound now perfect by morning’s light

She taught me much that I’m still making
From her life that now I’m grieving
Sewing, crocheting and great baking
But never invisible weaving

The picture of her life that mattered
I now see how she toiled so finely
And that the wrinkles in the fabric
Of my own life splayed out so blindly

The vision of my eyes, bedazzled
Incandescent, her face in the beam
Unaware how her mind unraveled
As Depression stole her ev’ry dream

The threads of DNA defining
Who I’ve become I’m now believing
My mother’s hand in that designing
Of my own Invisible Weaving

In honor of my mother, Edla Sylvia Fitzpatrick, on this International Women's Day

lately I have come dangerously close to contacting you
so i will write this,
in hopes that you will not read it.
I simply need to write to you,
because i feel as though my heart is imploding on itself.

so first thing is first.
I miss you.
I miss you every day.
At first, I had this feeling of missing a relationship.
I had soft memories of you,
memories of making love with someone that cared
memories of your body next to mine
but lately,
the memories have become clear and crisp
i no longer miss being in a relationship
I just miss you.
I have put those feelings through a strainer and kept the ones that make the most sense.
so now, i can't stop thinking about you.
everything reminds me of you.
I made asparagus for my parents the other day.
it made me think of you.
I drank some Mike's the other day.
Made me think of you.
I swear that every time I go into the hallway of my building, Chicago is playing on the loudspeakers.
It only reminds me of you.
And then there is everyone I ever cared about from Mankato.
Everyone reminds me of you.
And when I say "reminds", I mean that they all bring back vivid memories of us.
Of times that we were really happy.
And I miss us being happy.

I want to call you.
I want to hear your voice.
I want some sort of reassurance that you are out there.

But I know I can't.
And even if I did,
nothing good would come of it.
I would tell you that I miss you.
I would cry.
I would tell you that I love you.
I would cry harder.
And I would be secretly happy if you said that you were miserable in Texas.
I want you to be miserable without me
because I am miserable here without you.

I have progressed past the point where I normally would rebound
into someone else's arms.
I am strong.

And yet,

I feel so ******* weak



Anyway,
I've been doing okay.
I've been trying really hard to get out and meet people so I'm not lonely all the time.
I've made some new friends here in the cities.
I wish you could meet them.
I wish I could meet your friends in Texas.

I am turning 21 soon.
Really soon, actually.
Everyone keeps asking me what I want for my birthday.

I don't really know what to tell them
because there's only one thing
I want
but it's the one thing I can't have

just  a phone call.
just one call.

just to say "hi"
how are you
how is texas
i miss you
did you read my poem
thank you, yes i had a good birthday.
it would have been better with you here.
i wrote you another song
i got another job
i'm transferring schools
how is your family
how does your brother like college

i miss you
i wish you were here
i love you
yeah
talk to you later


I'm sorry for writing all this down.
I think I need some sort of closure that I still am not getting.
I am still holding onto some sort of hope

Hope for what? I'm not quite sure.
Mostly that you still care about me
and that you miss me as much as I miss you

because I've never had to "get over" anyone before
and everyone told me how hard it would be

but I didn't think I would wake up every morning and burst into tears
I didn't think that letting go
would take this long

I am, however, so happy that I am still single
REALLY single.

not dating anyone
not interested in anyone.

I wonder if you are too.
and if you are,
if it's because you miss me.

or if you just haven't found anyone that you like yet.

I realized pretty ******* quick
that you set my bar really high.
and it will be really hard for someone to meet all the standards you helped me create for myself.

my family is doing okay.
I got rear-ended a couple of weeks ago.
so we got a new car.
It's a white two-door honda.
i can't believe how sad it makes me,
because it looks so much like your car.
my dad hasn't been doing very well.
sometimes i feel like he doesn't want me around.
i feel like he wants me to just move out and get an apartment,
but i'm not able to right now. not financially.
but i feel a lot of self-shame
because i "moved back home".
my mom has started crocheting.
so she has made like 6 different hats, and a bag for me.
both of my parents have kind of laid off of me, in terms of religion.
They kinda let me do my own thing and have stopped trying to convert me.
Has your situation with your folks gotten any better?

Did you hear about the passing of gay marriage in minnesota?
of course you have.
august 1st was such a day of celebration.
I wish i could have taken you down to the courthouse in the capital to watch all the weddings happen.
it would have been so much fun.

i guess i'll wrap this letter up.
I know it's probably silly to write it because you said you would stop checking this website.
but, if you're anything like me, you check it anyway.
sometimes i un-block you on facebook just to look at your pictures.
you are still just as handsome as ever.
and once a week, at LEAST,
I check your university's website to see if they have a "staff profile" of you up yet.

So far no luck.

In the past two months,
I have let myself make a lot of mistakes.

But on the other hand,
nothing has changed how I feel about you.

I miss you and I care about you.



Don't take this the wrong way
but I love you.

don't call me.
I need to keep on keeping on.
I just needed to get this all off of my chest

maybe tonight
i'll be able to fall asleep without keeping myself awake crying.

-michelle

I'm weaving with yarn
crocheting stitches
across my heart

sewing up my wounds
allowing release
through art

a slipknot here
a whipstitch there

I weave and weave
as I crochet into repair

the frayed edges of my soul

The Bishops bathe in Babylon
while Princes, prancing on the lawn,
watch Queen deflowered, pale and wan.
            The King dares not defend her.

The Horsemen, holding broken reins
the Morning of the Hurricanes,
sigh “it’s no use, it’s all in vain,
            the Saints will soon surrender”.

They wonder why they ever came,
they have No One whom they can blame,
they have no face, they have no name,
            and even less, a gender.


The empty-handed Vagabonds
smoke stale cigars, stroke faded Blondes
while waiting at the walls beyond,
            but kneel as Chaos enters.

They’re gazing through the window panes
in hopes that distant Hurricanes
will twist and break their iron chains
            defying life’s tormentors.

The Fantom of the Opera frowns
as feeble minded Cleric-clowns
mouth hollow hurdy-gurdy sounds
           when blessing doomed dissenters.


The Pirate wields a wooden leg,
with pupils dull and visage vague,
and if by chance he spreads the plague,
            it really doesn’t matter.

His Princess, pale, no longer feigns,
foresees instead (down ancient lanes)
the coming of the Hurricanes -
            the Stones stir, staring at her.

And Jackals scrape the river bed
as Savants soothe the underfed
and Crows, collecting scattered bread,
            adorn, with crumbs, the platter.


The Jokers Wild and One Eyed Janes
weep, winding up in rundown trains
mid whispers of the Hurricanes,
            and Priests refuse to christen.

They’re fleeing from the Leprechauns,
the cuckoo birds, the dying swans;
while pitching pennies into ponds
            their eyes opaquely glisten.

The spectral Clocks with spindled spokes
remind the Mimes to tell the  Folks
the time of day and other jokes,
            yet No One looks to listen.


The Hunchbacks with contorted canes
galumph before the Hurricanes,
in melted sleet, in frozen rains,
            in bruised and battered sandals.

Their Groans engulf the land of gulls,
the land of stones, the land of nulls,
and lurk between the blackened lulls,
            for Nighttime brooks no candles.

Their prayers to Dogs and Nuns and Dukes,
(and other long forgotten Spooks)
are more than random crazed rebukes,
            though taunting to the Vandals.


The Beggars ’neath the balustrades,
and broken Children, Chambermaids,
are running wild from wraiths, afraid
            of dreams where death redoubles.

They fritter time with tattered threads
(from ragged clothes they’ve left in shreds),
crocheting hoods to hide their heads
            and faces, full of rubble.

But many things will not remain
the Morning of the Hurricanes,
when goblets filled with cool champagne
           evaporate in bubbles.


The White-Robed Maid adorns the trash
with charnel urns awash in ash,
then fumbles with an untied sash
            while pacing in the Palace.

Her hopes congeal in coffee spoons
with memories adrift in dunes;
yet, still she smiles with teeth like prunes
            and lips of painted callus.

And long before the midnight drains,
the Saviour wakes, the Loser gains,
the waters of the Hurricanes
            will fill her empty chalice.


The storm (behind the clarinets,
the silver flutes, the castanets,
the foghorns belching in quartets,
            the bagpipes, puffed and swollen)

is keeping time to tambourines
while Tom Thumb and the Four-Inch Queen,
pick up the shards and smithereens
            of moments lost or stolen.

They’re trekking through the Dim Domains
(where fountains weep, the mountain wanes),
yet can’t escape the Hurricanes
            with trundling eyes patrollin’.


The Crowds (arrayed in jewels) in jails,
stoop, peering through a fence of nails
while light behind their eyeballs pales
            with plastic flame that sputters.

They huddle there because they must
(with eyelids hung like peeling rust,
their tears, palled pellets in the dust),
            behind the bolted shutters.

They’ll reawake without their pains
the Morning of the Hurricanes,
without their sores, without their stains,
their agonies will fill the drains
            and overflow the gutters.

I have a Gumbie Cat in mind, her name is Jennyanydots;
Her coat is of the tabby kind, with tiger stripes and leopard spots.
All day she sits upon the stair or on the steps or on the mat;
She sits and sits and sits and sits—and that’s what makes a Gumbie Cat!

But when the day’s hustle and bustle is done,
Then the Gumbie Cat’s work is but hardly begun.
And when all the family’s in bed and asleep,
She tucks up her skirts to the basement to creep.
She is deeply concerned with the ways of the mice—
Their behaviour’s not good and their manners not nice;
So when she has got them lined up on the matting,
She teachs them music, crocheting and tatting.

I have a Gumbie Cat in mind, her name is Jennyanydots;
Her equal would be hard to find, she likes the warm and sunny spots.
All day she sits beside the hearth or on the bed or on my hat:
She sits and sits and sits and sits—and that’s what makes a Gumbie Cat!

But when the day’s hustle and bustle is done,
Then the Gumbie Cat’s work is but hardly begun.
As she finds that the mice will not ever keep quiet,
She is sure it is due to irregular diet;
And believing that nothing is done without trying,
She sets right to work with her baking and frying.
She makes them a mouse—cake of bread and dried peas,
And a beautiful fry of lean bacon and cheese.

I have a Gumbie Cat in mind, her name is Jennyanydots;
The curtain-cord she likes to wind, and tie it into sailor-knots.
She sits upon the window-sill, or anything that’s smooth and flat:
She sits and sits and sits and sits—and that’s what makes a Gumbie Cat!

But when the day’s hustle and bustle is done,
Then the Gumbie Cat’s work is but hardly begun.
She thinks that the cockroaches just need employment
To prevent them from idle and wanton destroyment.
So she’s formed, from that lot of disorderly louts,
A troop of well-disciplined helpful boy-scouts,
With a purpose in life and a good deed to do—
And she’s even created a Beetles’ Tattoo.

So for Old Gumbie Cats let us now give three cheers—
On whom well-ordered households depend, it appears.

closed in time
I’m looking in memory
for days spent with father
making
memories on the crochet
I confuse years unravel
hours escaped us
and smiled
I make a warm sweater for dad
for life
once it loses once it arrives
in strong arms of reality
I find the sense of this moment

Like an alien in a spotlight
With her magnifying glasses on
My mother as she worked, up all night
Did invisible weaving till dawn

I would watch her when I couldn’t sleep
Honing in on that hole in the suit
Intently, her concentration deep
Weaving tiny threads enlarged like jute

In other-worldly light she labored
I was afraid she’d lose her eyesight
Watching her focus never wavered
Her face all aglow in the lamplight

Invisible weaving, I inquired
How tediously she plied her craft
Worked for the money that she required
Made the warp and weft of fabric last

Reconstruction, undetectable
No more burn, or tear, or fabric blight
Weaving magic so incredible
Its wound now perfect by morning’s light

She taught me much that I'm still making
From her life that now I'm grieving
Sewing, crocheting and great baking
But never invisible weaving

The picture of her life that mattered
I now see how she toiled so finely
And that the wrinkles in the fabric
Of my own life splayed out so blindly

The vision of my eyes bedazzled
Incandescent, her face in the beam
Unaware how her mind unraveled
As depression stole her ev'ry dream

The threads of DNA defining
Who I’ve become I'm now believing
My mother’s hand in that designing
Of my own Invisible Weaving

Fond woman, which wouldst have thy husband die,
And yet complain’st of his great jealousy;
If swol’n with poison, he lay in his last bed,
His body with a sere-bark covered,
Drawing his breath, as thick and short, as can
The nimblest crocheting musician,
Ready with loathsome vomiting to spew
His soul out of one hell, into a new,
Made deaf with his poor kindred’s howling cries,
Begging with few feigned tears, great legacies,
Thou wouldst not weep, but jolly and frolic be,
As a slave, which tomorrow should be free;
Yet weep’st thou, when thou seest him hungerly
Swallow his own death, hearts-bane jealousy.
O give him many thanks, he’s courteous,
That in suspecting kindly warneth us
Wee must not, as we used, flout openly,
In scoffing riddles, his deformity;
Nor at his board together being sat,
With words, nor touch, scarce looks adulterate;
Nor when he swol’n, and pampered with great fare
Sits down, and snorts, caged in his basket chair,
Must we usurp his own bed any more,
Nor kiss and play in his house, as before.
Now I see many dangers; for that is
His realm, his castle, and his diocese.
But if, as envious men, which would revile
Their Prince, or coin his gold, themselves exile
Into another country, and do it there,
We play in another house, what should we fear?
There we will scorn his houshold policies,
His seely plots, and pensionary spies,
As the inhabitants of Thames’ right side
Do London’s Mayor; or Germans, the Pope’s pride.

Days turn pages
Sinking in the night
Abysmal aromas
Wrinkling skin so light.

Crocheting another blanket
Whimsical notes astir
Falling on the carpet
Bits and pieces of her.

A feudal interruption
White noise begins to blur
Reflections being casted
A comforting allure.

Sons decaying in the sky
Poinsettias set on tomb
Empty syringe on the grass
Dead fetus in the womb.

bye, bye, pie in the sky*

I made a dream

I made you out of nowhere,
Out of the mountain snow and out of the air.
I was spinning your head
On my spinning wheels
Out of warm sunshine and out of cool moon beams.
For months and months,
I was spinning your head.

I was weaving your hair
Out of silky threads
For weeks.

Carefully pedaling my old fashioned,
Singing
Sewing machine,
I spent nights
Stitching adornments on your pockets,
Embroidering your cuffs.

Crochet crazy,
I crocheted laces for your sheer enjoyment
And for your windows,
Hooked on the crocheting hooks
Way up high.

I knitted sweaters
For your sacrificial lambs
Of colourful wools.

You are almost finished,
My just a dream, just a dream,
I'll let you go
With the African hot wind.
I am all done
With you.

Sorry, I couldn't hold on
To my golden
Knitting needles
Any longer.

(1-16-07)

I know how to party,
On Friday nights,
I have crocheting, you see,
A stash of yarn, and coffee,
I'd say that's quite a party,
Hope all the crafters agree!

I was doing a little jig down the sidewalk
When all of a sudden
This red, bulbous, obstruction pounced into my field of view
I said, "Whoa, hotshot, cool down"

He/she/it did not reply
"I'm talking to you kiddo
Can you please communicate with me?"
It just sat there staring at me. Why?

You see, hydrants can be little stinkers sometimes
They'll talk your earlobe off one time
Other times they act like a sack of taters
They're just little drama queens

"Meow meow" said the hydrant
I take a look over yonder, than ask the **** target,
"Are you talking to me sir?"
"Meow," it said "I'm not sure I like your tone"

"You must be some sort of mind type hacker dealio
Cracking into my cerebellum, what are you doing in there?
Seriously man! Come on!
You must be going through emotional trauma. PTSD I don't know."

"Calm down buco, let's talk about this
Over a bucket of churned goat milk, I love that stuff.
How's Shirley? I hear she took up crocheting
I respect that"

"Grr, graa, paa?
Me oh my, this reminds me of pick up sticks all over again
Hey look at this man,
If you walk without rhythm, than you won't attract the worm."

(In English, we were supposed to write a poem based off of George Ella Lyon's poem "Where I'm From" and this is the one I wrote)

I am from picture frames,
from Dove and Suave.
I am from the white house on the corner of the street
(far enough from the train tracks, close enough to the park).
I am from lilacs,
from the rose bush on the side of the house,
always humming with bees.

I am from crocheting and complaining,
from Edith, Rachael, and Susanne.
I am from blind eyes with a blue glow,
from "Speak up!" and "Sit up straight."
I am from "Now I lay me down to sleep..."
and old, golden cross necklaces.

I am from Ohio,
turkey, and sweet tea.
From the night my grandparents ran away togethers,
and the glass wedged into my father's finger,
the day god lifted him from the driver's seat.

I'm from the upstairs closet,
sitting beside childhood memorabilia.
Images of faces I never met,
and those I'll never forget.
Bags of animals,
stuffed with imaginary souls,
and boxes of books
which tales will never grow old.

the process of crocheting an
afghan is about just that
the process

you make an afghan looking
forward to the nights you will
curl up under it and relishing
the way it fits over your
legs when it's halfway finished

or thinking and hoping
how much someone you love
will love and appreciate
your gift of time and callouses

weaving a container for whatever
emotions you need contained

i realized this that first winter
deep in february when i began
my long nights of scrap yarn
desperately trying to piece
something together out of
the not knowing why
i told myself that this was it
the sum total of my works
the item they would fold up and
place on the table next to the jar
of my ashes come september
and it was done by march

a slow and roundabout way
of pushing myself through
the suicidal smog
smeared through my mind

my friends had blankets wrapped
around them that bright morning
of the anniversary we all cried together
my tears falling on my afghan

i made them each an afghan
plus a few more
always pushing myself
to look forward

lost count of how
much yarn i used
how many stitches
passed through my hands

but by the time the next
march came around i
had made or charted
out five more

to fill the void
clawing at my insides

spent a year making
myself another
in tight ripples of
time and television

and now
my fingers
slow
and stop

seven afghans
in two years
is an accomplishment
that might send the
head of even the
highest caliber of
grandma spinning

i have no more afghans
left in me to make

so instead i crawl
down into bed
two i made
two from friends
and one from
my mother

and lie
head pounding
eyes puffy
void of energy
in the space
between my afghans

I think of you
crocheting words,
quietly,
unobserved
by your husband,
watching TV,
in **** gray socks.

i will save time,
littlest brother.
i will wrap it up
and put it into a box
to mature,
like a rare cheese
only for you and me.

on the day
that you come to me
and want to know
what it was like
before mom left
because you won't remember,
i will open our box
and show you.

first i will take out
a lock of mom's blonde hair
that used to fall
down to her waist
and i will tell you
what it looked like
in the sunshine
while we made
daisy chains.
i will tell you
how it turned brown
later on
and how mom let me sit
on her bed
and twist, twist, twist
for hours,
because i didn't know how to braid.
and how me and Erika sat
in front of the space heater
and dried off
after a bath
mom crocheting
on the bed,
singing.

then i will remove from our box
a crisp, shriveled leaf
from the Big Tree
and i will let you smell it.
i will say,
this is what
home smells like...
never forget,
littlest brother.
i will sit you on my lap
and paint you pictures with my fingers
i will reveal to you little indian huts
and smoky firepits
and *****, chipped toes.

lastly
i will steal from time
and will take from our box,
what is rightfully ours
and i will give you
the last shred
that i have saved
for so long...
just for you, littlest brother.
i will give you mom and dad
together.
happy.
i will give you mom and dad
in their funky, attic-smelling bathing suits
mom's tummy protruding with another older sister for you
standing on the hot stones
dad's big, funny glasses
glinting in the sun,
a sun that shown down
on something whole
something perfect.
i will give you mom and dad
snuggled under a blanket
on the couch
watching a movie together
mom giving dad 'the look'
as he chuckles...

littlest brother,
i will do all i can
to create memories for you...
because everyone deserves to remember
something happy...
littlest brother,
i will steal from time
all i can
all for you...
until time decides to take back
what is rightfully his.

It didn’t really happen. I was awkward,
a sloppy crocheting of clumsy hands.
I was scared of my body; or maybe,
I was scared of her body. Foreign,
but bright from the veil of curtains
slighting a late spring light. I kissed
like a maniac, but when it came down
to the business of pleasure, I could not
make a transaction. She later told me
I could have gone on longer
than my half-a-minute slow grind before
I chickened out. Even now, after
my fifth major relationship and plenty
of romping and dancing atop mattresses
mine and not mine, I feel my first ****
is how I approach love. Tentative,
too contemplative, and none-so-bold.
Perhaps it is because I learned early,
to hate myself, this body that is still
so new to me: twenty-five years owned
and I still don’t know how to love myself.
I just hope that one day, I will be that light
streaming into the room, touching everything
around it, feeling with tender warmth
the goodness of what soon hinders its path
casting shadows behind what I come to kiss.

My dog is eating me alive.
I picked a mosquito bite.
It bled, of course because I bite my nails.
His tongue his scratchy and it feels
like he is eating me alive.
Like my dog is eating me alive.

The clothes I wear are swallowing me whole.
I'm suffocating in their woven hold.
The craftsmanship is fine
it's my body that's confined
and I swear it feels like
the clothes I wear are swallowing me whole.

My hair is too unruly for my head.
It takes up knotting when I am in bed.
Crocheting, colliding, fitting you under me
Finally in the morning I can see
My hair is too unruly for my head.

Life scares the hell out of me.
Things like garbage, masks and poetry
make me want to ***** my lunch
or just smoke and dance
because sometimes thinking kills you
and that is why
life scares the hell out of me.

the theory is 'energy is not created or destroyed', but every time i look at you or every time you speak to me i swear that energy is created and i don't know what i was thinking, you cannot fall in love with someone who defies laws of science. but yes i sure think about you a lot i think a lot about how you are probably the type of girl who never quite wakes up until half way through the morning and you are probably not a coffee drinker because i know how much you like tea and i wonder if you think about how much i think about this right before you treat me like the mud you sloppily stomped on during your walk to school. i also wonder if you notice the small details. i do not think you do because to you i am a single tiny leaf on the biggest maple tree in your city and you can only see that tree as a tree, a whole, you do not see it for every leaf every inch of bark every tiny twig every single atom that makes it look like a tree and you do not think about the color spectrum and light reflecting colors and what light exactly reflected what to make that tree bark brown but slightly green with moss and do you even wonder if the moss or the tree or the table next to your bed that embraces your books and current crocheting project is even real at all? did you just imagine them there?

how can they make such rigid stuff
from soft wools, take the thing then
harden it.

they say it will last a lifetime, hold its own.
tradition.

looks as if it would hold
the rain out, repell the scattered
words of cold,

and evil. a coat so heavy
it dragged us down.

there was crocheting yesterday,
with blue and softer yarn, a small ply.

a gentle thing, a memory.

sbm.

Dearest creature in creation
Studying English pronunciation,
   I will teach you in my verse
   Sounds like corpse, corps, horse and worse.

I will keep you, Susy, busy,
Make your head with heat grow dizzy;
   Tear in eye, your dress you'll tear;
   Queer, fair seer, hear my prayer.

Pray, console your loving poet,
Make my coat look new, dear, sew it!
   Just compare heart, hear and heard,
   Dies and diet, lord and word.

Sword and sward, retain and Britain
(Mind the latter how it's written).
   Made has not the sound of bade,
   Say-said, pay-paid, laid but plaid.

Now I surely will not plague you
With such words as vague and ague,
   But be careful how you speak,
   Say: gush, bush, steak, streak, break, bleak ,

Previous, precious, fuchsia, via
Recipe, pipe, studding-sail, choir;
   Woven, oven, how and low,
   Script, receipt, shoe, poem, toe.

Say, expecting fraud and trickery:
Daughter, laughter and Terpsichore,
   Branch, ranch, measles, topsails, aisles,
   Missiles, similes, reviles.

Wholly, holly, signal, signing,
Same, examining, but mining,
   Scholar, vicar, and cigar,
   Solar, mica, war and far.

From "desire": desirable-admirable from "admire",
Lumber, plumber, bier, but brier,
   Topsham, brougham, renown, but known,
   Knowledge, done, lone, gone, none, tone,

One, anemone, Balmoral,
Kitchen, lichen, laundry, laurel.
   Gertrude, German, wind and wind,
   Beau, kind, kindred, queue, mankind,

Tortoise, turquoise, chamois-leather,
Reading, Reading, heathen, heather.
   This phonetic labyrinth
   Gives moss, gross, brook, brooch, ninth, plinth.

Have you ever yet endeavoured
To pronounce revered and severed,
   Demon, lemon, ghoul, foul, soul,
   Peter, petrol and patrol?

Billet does not end like ballet;
Bouquet, wallet, mallet, chalet.
   Blood and flood are not like food,
   Nor is mould like should and would.

Banquet is not nearly parquet,
Which exactly rhymes with khaki.
   Discount, viscount, load and broad,
   Toward, to forward, to reward,

Ricocheted and crocheting, croquet?
Right! Your pronunciation's OK.
   Rounded, wounded, grieve and sieve,
   Friend and fiend, alive and live.

Is your r correct in higher?
Keats asserts it rhymes Thalia.
   Hugh, but hug, and hood, but hoot,
   Buoyant, minute, but minute.

Say abscission with precision,
Now: position and transition;
   Would it tally with my rhyme
   If I mentioned paradigm?

Twopence, threepence, tease are easy,
But cease, crease, grease and greasy?
   Cornice, nice, valise, revise,
   Rabies, but lullabies.

Of such puzzling words as nauseous,
Rhyming well with cautious, tortious,
   You'll envelop lists, I hope,
   In a linen envelope.

Would you like some more? You'll have it!
Affidavit, David, davit.
   To abjure, to perjure. Sheik
   Does not sound like Czech but ache.

Liberty, library, heave and heaven,
Rachel, loch, moustache, eleven.
   We say hallowed, but allowed,
   People, leopard, towed but vowed.

Mark the difference, moreover,
Between mover, plover, Dover.
   Leeches, breeches, wise, precise,
   Chalice, but police and lice,

Camel, constable, unstable,
Principle, disciple, label.
   Petal, penal, and canal,
   Wait, surmise, plait, promise, pal,

Suit, suite, ruin. Circuit, conduit
Rhyme with "shirk it" and "beyond it",
   But it is not hard to tell
   Why it's pall, mall, but Pall Mall.

Muscle, muscular, gaol, iron,
Timber, climber, bullion, lion,
   Worm and storm, chaise, chaos, chair,
   Senator, spectator, mayor,

Ivy, privy, famous; clamour
Has the a of drachm and hammer.
   *****, ***** and possess,
   Desert, but desert, address.

Golf, wolf, countenance, lieutenants
Hoist in lieu of flags left pennants.
   Courier, courtier, tomb, bomb, comb,
   Cow, but Cowper, some and home.

"Solder, soldier! Blood is thicker",
Quoth he, "than liqueur or liquor",
   Making, it is sad but true,
   In bravado, much ado.

Stranger does not rhyme with anger,
Neither does devour with clangour.
   Pilot, pivot, gaunt, but aunt,
   Font, front, wont, want, grand and grant.

Arsenic, specific, scenic,
Relic, rhetoric, hygienic.
   Gooseberry, goose, and close, but close,
   Paradise, rise, rose, and dose.

Say inveigh, neigh, but inveigle,
Make the latter rhyme with eagle.
   Mind! Meandering but mean,
   Valentine and magazine.

And I bet you, dear, a penny,
You say mani-(fold) like many,
   Which is wrong. Say rapier, pier,
   Tier (one who ties), but tier.

Arch, archangel; pray, does erring
Rhyme with herring or with stirring?
   Prison, bison, treasure trove,
   Treason, hover, cover, cove,

Perseverance, severance. Ribald
Rhymes (but piebald doesn't) with nibbled.
   Phaeton, paean, gnat, ghat, gnaw,
   Lien, psychic, shone, bone, pshaw.

Don't be down, my own, but rough it,
And distinguish buffet, buffet;
   Brood, stood, roof, rook, school, wool, boon,
   Worcester, Boleyn, to impugn.

Say in sounds correct and sterling
Hearse, hear, hearken, year and yearling.
   Evil, devil, mezzotint,
   Mind the z! (A gentle hint.)

Now you need not pay attention
To such sounds as I don't mention,
   Sounds like pores, pause, pours and paws,
   Rhyming with the pronoun yours;

Nor are proper names included,
Though I often heard, as you did,
   Funny rhymes to unicorn,
   Yes, you know them, Vaughan and Strachan.

No, my maiden, coy and comely,
I don't want to speak of Cholmondeley.
   No. Yet Froude compared with proud
   Is no better than McLeod.

But mind trivial and vial,
Tripod, menial, denial,
   Troll and trolley, realm and ream,
   Schedule, mischief, schism, and scheme.

Argil, gill, Argyll, gill. Surely
May be made to rhyme with Raleigh,
   But you're not supposed to say
   Piquet rhymes with sobriquet.

Had this invalid invalid
Worthless documents? How pallid,
   How uncouth he, couchant, looked,
   When for Portsmouth I had booked!

Zeus, Thebes, Thales, Aphrodite,
Paramour, enamoured, flighty,
   Episodes, antipodes,
   Acquiesce, and obsequies.

Please don't monkey with the geyser,
Don't peel 'taters with my razor,
   Rather say in accents pure:
   Nature, stature and mature.

Pious, impious, limb, climb, glumly,
Worsted, worsted, crumbly, dumbly,
   Conquer, conquest, vase, phase, fan,
   Wan, sedan and artisan.

The th will surely trouble you
More than r, ch or w.
   Say then these phonetic gems:
   Thomas, thyme, Theresa, Thames.

Thompson, Chatham, Waltham, Streatham,
There are more but I forget 'em-
   Wait! I've got it: Anthony,
   Lighten your anxiety.

The archaic word albeit
Does not rhyme with eight-you see it;
   With and forthwith, one has voice,
   One has not, you make your choice.

Shoes, goes, does *. Now first say: finger;
Then say: singer, ginger, linger.
   Real, zeal, mauve, gauze and gauge,
   Marriage, foliage, mirage, age,

Hero, heron, query, very,
Parry, tarry fury, bury,
   Dost, lost, post, and doth, cloth, loth,
   Job, Job, blossom, *****, oath.

Faugh, oppugnant, keen oppugners,
Bowing, bowing, banjo-tuners
   Holm you know, but noes, canoes,
   Puisne, truism, use, to use?

Though the difference seems little,
We say actual, but victual,
   Seat, sweat, chaste, caste, Leigh, eight, height,
   Put, nut, granite, and unite.

****** does not rhyme with deafer,
Feoffer does, and zephyr, heifer.
   Dull, bull, Geoffrey, George, ate, late,
   Hint, pint, senate, but sedate.

Gaelic, Arabic, pacific,
Science, conscience, scientific;
   Tour, but our, dour, succour, four,
   Gas, alas, and Arkansas.

Say manoeuvre, yacht and *****,
Next omit, which differs from it
   Bona fide, alibi
   Gyrate, dowry and awry.

Sea, idea, guinea, area,
Psalm, Maria, but malaria.
   Youth, south, southern, cleanse and clean,
   Doctrine, turpentine, marine.

Compare alien with Italian,
Dandelion with battalion,
   Rally with ally; yea, ye,
   Eye, I, ay, aye, whey, key, quay!

Say aver, but ever, fever,
Neither, leisure, skein, receiver.
   Never guess-it is not safe,
   We say calves, valves, half, but Ralf.

Starry, granary, canary,
Crevice, but device, and eyrie,
   Face, but preface, then grimace,
   Phlegm, phlegmatic, ***, glass, bass.

Bass, large, target, gin, give, verging,
Ought, oust, joust, and scour, but scourging;
   Ear, but earn; and ere and tear
   Do not rhyme with here but heir.

Mind the o of off and often
Which may be pronounced as orphan,
   With the sound of saw and sauce;
   Also soft, lost, cloth and cross.

Pudding, puddle, putting. Putting?
Yes: at golf it rhymes with shutting.
   Respite, spite, consent, resent.
   Liable, but Parliament.

Seven is right, but so is even,
Hyphen, roughen, nephew, Stephen,
   Monkey, donkey, clerk and ****,
   Asp, grasp, wasp, demesne, cork, work.

A of valour, vapid vapour,
S of news (compare newspaper),
   G of gibbet, gibbon, gist,
   I of antichrist and grist,

Differ like diverse and divers,
Rivers, strivers, shivers, fivers.
   Once, but *****, toll, doll, but roll,
   Polish, Polish, poll and poll.

Pronunciation-think of Psyche!-
Is a paling, stout and spiky.
   Won't it make you lose your wits
   Writing groats and saying "grits"?

It's a dark abyss or tunnel
Strewn with stones like rowlock, gunwale,
   Islington, and Isle of Wight,
   Housewife, verdict and indict.

Don't you think so, reader, rather,
Saying lather, bather, father?
   Finally, which rhymes with enough,
   Though, through, bough, cough, hough, sough, tough??

Hiccough has the sound of sup...
My advice is: GIVE IT UP!

I'm so ******* tired of overthinking
I'm so tired of everything
It isn't fair
Am I just a narcissist?
Am I someone that isn't interesting at all?
Please tell me
I'm trying to change myself to be more acceptable
What can I do
To please you?
I'M TRYING
PLEASE ACCEPT THAT

It is tiring when I have to listen to someone I dislike rant to me everyday
I'm tired of crying
I'm tired from school
I'm tired of drawing
I'm tired from crocheting
I'm tired of everything
Except writing my own thoughts
Emotions
Emotions I can't even detect well enough for my own sanity
Yet the strongest ones are stressed
And tired

I'm trying to adapt to other people
Like I'm an alien from another planet
Everything feels so new
Yet I feel so old
And rusty
I feel so weird
Disgusting
Grimy
I don't take care of my body well
I torture it
I hate my low self-esteem
I hate it so much
I wish I was carefree
Just like my sister
I know this might just be a phase in life
But it feels like a phase of hell

Chúa ơi...
Just release me already
From this hell
I'm begging you

I stopped writing for a while

before that I stopped drawing
before that I stopped making videos
before that I stopped crocheting
before that I stopped reading
before that I stopped something else

I'm left to wonder
if I keep stopping
when will I run out of things to stop

I stopped leaving my bed if I can help it
and I stopped caring too much about it

I stopped writing for a while
but I'm trying to start again
it's been a while since I've had a start
maybe just starting is the hardest part

Some people think it's easy.
That if you just tell me to smile I will and that I will genuinely mean it, too.
And I try to mean it- believe me, I try.
I try to find a hint of happiness inside of me and force it out.
I tried.
I tried to do the things that normal and happy people do
Because maybe if I tried I could convince myself that I, too, was a happy and normal person.
So I tried.
I took myself out to dinner.
I tried yoga.
I went to parties, and even though I can't dance, I danced anyways and made a beautiful fool of myself.
I finally bought myself a lava lamp because I've always thought they were cool.
I organized the clothes in my closet by color.
I spent twenty minutes picking out the ripest tomatoes in the grocery store.
I took up crocheting,
I learned a little French,
And I forgot all about this mess of a life I'm in by making a mess in my kitchen.
I sang in the shower so loud and proud that I lost my voice.
I went cheese tasting,
And I drank A LOT of wine.
I made faces at every person I drove by on the highway.
I started going on walks.
I started going on runs.
I ran to the balcony
And stepped on the ledge
And threw my arms out beside me
And screamed YES!
I'm free! And I'm so happy about it!
I'm happy.
I promise you I'm happy.
These tears, they are just because I'm so happy and my sadness is crying because it's gone.
I'm not sad anymore.
I'm normal. I'm happy.
I'm just like everyone else when they go to art galleries.
I'm actually looking at the art really hard and trying to find the meaning behind a red squiggle rather than just really trying to avoid people from seeing the pain.
I'm actually just a normal person that's perfectly content when they go wash their hands instead of a person that dreads walking up to a faucet and catching a glimpse of their reflection.
I'm actually a normal person that stepped onto a ledge to feel nothing but freedom rather than feeling a desire to take another step.
I'm actually ok and I'm so happy.
It's what I whispered to myself at night
Because I thought that maybe if I told myself it enough times I would eventually wake up one morning and find it to be true.
That I'm ok. I'm happy.
That's what I want to convince you because maybe if you're convinced...
I'll be convinced too.

i’m crocheting a little friend
a stingray
out of teal and white yarn i am spinning him
he is tighly woven and
thinly drawn

and his eyes are stitched of black yarn woven into sloppy crosses
i don’t know if i’ll keep my little friend once he is complete
he is something that should be given away
to someone who needs his soft company more than i
i could make a thousand stingrays once i understand the pattern
but in giving him away he would be
someone’s only stingray
and i think everyone should have
a soft tightly wound sea creature
at least once in their lives

i don't think i am all that pretty
i live in a city
i don't even know why i chose this word but litty
i do find pizza to be quite fitting
i feel like i am always sitting
i hate the sound of baseball bats when they are hitting
i hate it when people look at me with pity
i'm kinda of funny and can often be witty
i much prefer crocheting to knitting
my favorite hobby must be forgetting
the sound of styrofoam is ear-splitting
this poem is looking pretty ******
i should have stopped this before the beginning
i'm not sure if that last line rhymed.. it didn't who am i kidding?