"sewing" poems - Hello Poetry

I am sewing a dress with the thread of strength, And knots of ambitions, And when it’s ready, Then will iron it with the remission, I am sewing my broken soul! By: Nida Mahmoed.

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May 20, 2017

May 20, 2017 at 6:47 AM UTC

nidamahmoed

Sewing my Broken Soul

I am sewing a dress with the thread of strength, And knots of ambitions, And when it’s ready, Then will iron it with the remission, I am sewing my broken soul! By: Nida Mahmoed.

8

Who threw the silver dollar up into the tree? I didn’t said the little lady who sews and grows every day paler-paler she sits sewing and grow- ing and that’s the truth, who threw the ripe melon into the tree?you got me said the smoke who runs the elevator but I bet two bits come seven come eleven mm make the world safe for democracy it never fails and that’s a fact; who threw the bunch of violets into the tree?I dunno said the silver dog, with ripe eyes and wagged his tail that’s the god’s own and the moon kissed the little lady on her paler-paler face and said never mind,you’ll find But the moon creeped into the pink hand of the smoke that shook the ivories and she said said She Win and you won’t be sorry And The Moon camelalong-along to the waggy silver dog and the moon came and the Moon said into his Ripe Eyes and the moon Smiled ,so

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19.3k

E. E. Cummings

Who

Who threw the silver dollar up into the tree? I didn’t said the little lady who sews and grows every day paler-paler she sits sewing and grow- ing and that’s the truth, who threw the ripe melon into the tree?you got me said the smoke who runs the elevator but I bet two bits come seven come eleven mm make the world safe for democracy it never fails and that’s a fact; who threw the bunch of violets into the tree?I dunno said the silver dog, with ripe eyes and wagged his tail that’s the god’s own and the moon kissed the little lady on her paler-paler face and said never mind,you’ll find But the moon creeped into the pink hand of the smoke that shook the ivories and she said said She Win and you won’t be sorry And The Moon camelalong-along to the waggy silver dog and the moon came and the Moon said into his Ripe Eyes and the moon Smiled ,so

25

She cries late every night Turns off all the lights Sits in bed bawls her eyes out in the dark Cutting out pieces of her heart No one can see the scars of her sewing back up her chest Soon she will be an empty shell Hopefully putting her soul to rest If her heart is no longer there It can't get broken, right? If no one can see the tears Then she never cried, right?

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Oct 29, 2014

Oct 29, 2014 at 7:25 PM UTC

JustMelz

~she never cried~

She cries late every night Turns off all the lights Sits in bed bawls her eyes out in the dark Cutting out pieces of her heart No one can see the scars of her sewing back up her chest Soon she will be an empty shell Hopefully putting her soul to rest If her heart is no longer there It can't get broken, right? If no one can see the tears Then she never cried, right?

26

Ramadan comes with lots of prayers, Fasting and doing charity, With the fragrance of heaven, Which still lingers in our mind, To Allah alone, we turn our hopes and intentions. Ramadan does not leave empty handed, It leaves with a golden handshake in the name of EID UL FITR. To celebrate with family and friends, Reaching out our hearts, Extending happiness, Sewing relationships. What better than a sweet dish Sev khurmo (vermicelle cooked in milk with raisins almonds and pistachios ), To hail in oneness, Joy and prosperity. Happy Eid Mubarak To all on Hello Poetry.

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Jun 13, 2018

Jun 13, 2018 at 4:49 PM UTC

salmabanu-hatim

Eid Ul Fitr Mubarak

Ramadan comes with lots of prayers, Fasting and doing charity, With the fragrance of heaven, Which still lingers in our mind, To Allah alone, we turn our hopes and intentions. Ramadan does not leave empty handed, It leaves with a golden handshake in the name of EID UL FITR. To celebrate with family and friends, Reaching out our hearts, Extending happiness, Sewing relationships. What better than a sweet dish Sev khurmo (vermicelle cooked in milk with raisins almonds and pistachios ), To hail in oneness, Joy and prosperity. Happy Eid Mubarak To all on Hello Poetry.

18

I never got to meet my father... He died when I was nine months old, But his presence, I always felt While I was growing up, Even up to this day... He would often visit me in my dreams, Told me not to worry or despair, Took my hand, Told me I could go with him.. Which I almost did... A few times, in high school I felt a light push on my back When my Home Economics teacher Almost caught me nodding...I was Too bored, to focus on her sewing lessons... I was always saved from falling Each time I climbed the guava tree... I feel some kind of force stopping me, Standing ahead of me, Whenever I cross the street, even now... My late aunt said she found me Looking up and giggling When at three or five years old, I played by myself beside My father's tall and sturdy book case... I see his face when I go through His dwindling collection of Edgar Allan Poe books, including his Law books, and a few western pocketbooks left, All, with mottled pages now... The matrimonial bed he shared With my late mother is still in use... His portrait is hung on our wall... Today, the fifteenth of June, his birthday, I look through his eyes, and----- In silence, I greet him, "Happy birthday, papa, Happy Father's Day, as well." In my mind, my father lives, And my own stories of him therein dwells... Sally Copyright 2014 Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan

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Jun 15, 2014

Jun 15, 2014 at 2:01 PM UTC

sally-a-bayan

Lost Days With My Father

I never got to meet my father... He died when I was nine months old, But his presence, I always felt While I was growing up, Even up to this day... He would often visit me in my dreams, Told me not to worry or despair, Took my hand, Told me I could go with him.. Which I almost did... A few times, in high school I felt a light push on my back When my Home Economics teacher Almost caught me nodding...I was Too bored, to focus on her sewing lessons... I was always saved from falling Each time I climbed the guava tree... I feel some kind of force stopping me, Standing ahead of me, Whenever I cross the street, even now... My late aunt said she found me Looking up and giggling When at three or five years old, I played by myself beside My father's tall and sturdy book case... I see his face when I go through His dwindling collection of Edgar Allan Poe books, including his Law books, and a few western pocketbooks left, All, with mottled pages now... The matrimonial bed he shared With my late mother is still in use... His portrait is hung on our wall... Today, the fifteenth of June, his birthday, I look through his eyes, and----- In silence, I greet him, "Happy birthday, papa, Happy Father's Day, as well." In my mind, my father lives, And my own stories of him therein dwells... Sally Copyright 2014 Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan

43

Twenty-four years remind the tears of my eyes. (Bury the dead for fear that they walk to the grave in labour.) In the groin of the natural doorway I crouched like a tailor Sewing a shroud for a journey By the light of the meat-eating sun. Dressed to die, the sensual strut begun, With my red veins full of money, In the final direction of the elementary town I advance as long as forever is.

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8.3k

Dylan Thomas

Twenty-Four Years

Twenty-four years remind the tears of my eyes. (Bury the dead for fear that they walk to the grave in labour.) In the groin of the natural doorway I crouched like a tailor Sewing a shroud for a journey By the light of the meat-eating sun. Dressed to die, the sensual strut begun, With my red veins full of money, In the final direction of the elementary town I advance as long as forever is.

9

The *** Tum Tugger is a Curious Cat: If you offer him pheasant he would rather have grouse. If you put him in a house he would much prefer a flat, If you put him in a flat then he’d rather have a house. If you set him on a mouse then he only wants a rat, If you set him on a rat then he’d rather chase a mouse. Yes the *** Tum Tugger is a Curious Cat— And there isn’t any call for me to shout it: For he will do As he do do And there’s no doing anything about it! The *** Tum Tugger is a terrible bore: When you let him in, then he wants to be out; He’s always on the wrong side of every door, And as soon as he’s at home, then he’d like to get about. He likes to lie in the bureau drawer, But he makes such a fuss if he can’t get out. Yes the *** Tum Tugger is a Curious Cat— And there isn’t any use for you to doubt it: For he will do As he do do And there’s no doing anything about it! The *** Tum Tugger is a curious beast: His disobliging ways are a matter of habit. If you offer him fish then he always wants a feast; When there isn’t any fish then he won’t eat rabbit. If you offer him cream then he sniffs and sneers, For he only likes what he finds for himself; So you’ll catch him in it right up to the ears, If you put it away on the larder shelf. The *** Tum Tugger is artful and knowing, The *** Tum Tugger doesn’t care for a cuddle; But he’ll leap on your lap in the middle of your sewing, For there’s nothing he enjoys like a horrible muddle. Yes the *** Tum Tugger is a Curious Cat— And there isn’t any need for me to spout it: For he will do As he do do And theres no doing anything about it!

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7.3k

T. S. Eliot

The *** Tum Tugger

The *** Tum Tugger is a Curious Cat: If you offer him pheasant he would rather have grouse. If you put him in a house he would much prefer a flat, If you put him in a flat then he’d rather have a house. If you set him on a mouse then he only wants a rat, If you set him on a rat then he’d rather chase a mouse. Yes the *** Tum Tugger is a Curious Cat— And there isn’t any call for me to shout it: For he will do As he do do And there’s no doing anything about it! The *** Tum Tugger is a terrible bore: When you let him in, then he wants to be out; He’s always on the wrong side of every door, And as soon as he’s at home, then he’d like to get about. He likes to lie in the bureau drawer, But he makes such a fuss if he can’t get out. Yes the *** Tum Tugger is a Curious Cat— And there isn’t any use for you to doubt it: For he will do As he do do And there’s no doing anything about it! The *** Tum Tugger is a curious beast: His disobliging ways are a matter of habit. If you offer him fish then he always wants a feast; When there isn’t any fish then he won’t eat rabbit. If you offer him cream then he sniffs and sneers, For he only likes what he finds for himself; So you’ll catch him in it right up to the ears, If you put it away on the larder shelf. The *** Tum Tugger is artful and knowing, The *** Tum Tugger doesn’t care for a cuddle; But he’ll leap on your lap in the middle of your sewing, For there’s nothing he enjoys like a horrible muddle. Yes the *** Tum Tugger is a Curious Cat— And there isn’t any need for me to spout it: For he will do As he do do And theres no doing anything about it!

39

I was asked today "what are you really into?" while I was walking to film class. He had changed direction with a flair of drama and was walking along, interrogating me. I had to think. I wondered how I would answer his question, were it posed by someone I was interested in. "I like the smell of hormones colliding, omnipotent in their decision to do so and in doing it." Could I say that? "I like to feel like a hormone," or "I like being a hormone." Were these answers? "I like patting my contracted ******* against the ***** majora of my partner." "I like sewing," I might say. That is, the idea that if I push and she opens both testicles and ******** may pop inside. Like a **** needle pulling a ***** thread through a tight weave. I laugh, imagining what the little man would say, but he doesn't know why. "Stitch her up, Doctor!" I'm laughing. He just says "you know, I'm into chemistry, biology. Just tell me what you're into." I've been silent. Is he still walking with me? All I think to say is "music" pointing to the earbuds dangling over my chest, song interrupted by his pedantry. He says "you've always liked music" as if we've had this conversation before. As if we know each other. And it seems like he will follow me to class. And sit by me. And talk about chemistry and biology while we discuss Singin' in the Rain. Hormones, sewing and music.

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Sep 21, 2012

Sep 21, 2012 at 12:50 AM UTC

sansara-justinovich

Hormones, sewing, music

I was asked today "what are you really into?" while I was walking to film class. He had changed direction with a flair of drama and was walking along, interrogating me. I had to think. I wondered how I would answer his question, were it posed by someone I was interested in. "I like the smell of hormones colliding, omnipotent in their decision to do so and in doing it." Could I say that? "I like to feel like a hormone," or "I like being a hormone." Were these answers? "I like patting my contracted ******* against the ***** majora of my partner." "I like sewing," I might say. That is, the idea that if I push and she opens both testicles and ******** may pop inside. Like a **** needle pulling a ***** thread through a tight weave. I laugh, imagining what the little man would say, but he doesn't know why. "Stitch her up, Doctor!" I'm laughing. He just says "you know, I'm into chemistry, biology. Just tell me what you're into." I've been silent. Is he still walking with me? All I think to say is "music" pointing to the earbuds dangling over my chest, song interrupted by his pedantry. He says "you've always liked music" as if we've had this conversation before. As if we know each other. And it seems like he will follow me to class. And sit by me. And talk about chemistry and biology while we discuss Singin' in the Rain. Hormones, sewing and music.

60

An absence reversed Beheld Belonging Fuming lush greenery seemingly Between the frothing Soup and lather twinkling Speaking "Tradition may act dishonestly" All and sundry Trails along merrily For traditionally All is how it should be Belonging to one and only. Binding A trade between the thin lines A baking sheet made sprayed messy Artists in threes Shakers of mountains for invisible ease The truth is simply Things done traditionally All-in consuming historically. Flesh Released Is fresh Relief Hidden in the fabric's sleeve A gaping passage of air and breeze Racing electricity Breathtaking silk from worms And worms eaten by birds Tradition Sewing the dresses of Empress the third. Halt Her plea worth salt and sugar Still Like the skater's Minted odour Hope Distances the valleys low dipped to the everlasted rivers Where a time arrives for eternal celebration. The embellishments of Unwavered tradition.

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Oct 9, 2018

Oct 9, 2018 at 1:10 PM UTC

DarjeelingT

Tradition's all

An absence reversed Beheld Belonging Fuming lush greenery seemingly Between the frothing Soup and lather twinkling Speaking "Tradition may act dishonestly" All and sundry Trails along merrily For traditionally All is how it should be Belonging to one and only. Binding A trade between the thin lines A baking sheet made sprayed messy Artists in threes Shakers of mountains for invisible ease The truth is simply Things done traditionally All-in consuming historically. Flesh Released Is fresh Relief Hidden in the fabric's sleeve A gaping passage of air and breeze Racing electricity Breathtaking silk from worms And worms eaten by birds Tradition Sewing the dresses of Empress the third. Halt Her plea worth salt and sugar Still Like the skater's Minted odour Hope Distances the valleys low dipped to the everlasted rivers Where a time arrives for eternal celebration. The embellishments of Unwavered tradition.

42

For me you gave up everything and I'll never be able to mend the seams of all your broken dreams I've never really been good at fixing things I'm most apparently better at breaking

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Mar 12, 2014

Mar 12, 2014 at 7:35 AM UTC

alyssa-williams

Sewing

For me you gave up everything and I'll never be able to mend the seams of all your broken dreams I've never really been good at fixing things I'm most apparently better at breaking

4

I am going to sew my soul with the trace of your voice that trembles inside the medulla of my dorsal spine.....

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Mar 9, 2015

Mar 9, 2015 at 8:07 PM UTC

puly

Sewing

I am going to sew my soul with the trace of your voice that trembles inside the medulla of my dorsal spine.....

1

I had been whispering brazenly in your ear all night. Not even using words half the time. A knowing smile, a finger edging ever closer to your womanhood. When I flicked your ******* the first time tonight I knew I couldn't lose. The nearest park. The nearest patch of grass in the dark. Covered in dirt, a train thundered past as you came, your ticket to be vocal. You looked so beautiful right then. I inhaled you one last time and looked up at the stars as we put on our faces.

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Oct 2, 2017

Oct 2, 2017 at 4:41 PM UTC

Koroko

Sewing seeds

I had been whispering brazenly in your ear all night. Not even using words half the time. A knowing smile, a finger edging ever closer to your womanhood. When I flicked your ******* the first time tonight I knew I couldn't lose. The nearest park. The nearest patch of grass in the dark. Covered in dirt, a train thundered past as you came, your ticket to be vocal. You looked so beautiful right then. I inhaled you one last time and looked up at the stars as we put on our faces.

9

What are we doing out here In the wild wild west Are you showing me something Or are we here to rest We've traveled a long road But I'm not ready to settle yet Spider crawling up my arm one day Blood on my quilt the next Blood splot on the bathroom floor Hair chopped off Cut my finger Cut that **** Third eye minds eye know you can open it **** nugs nudging you toward it Chugging fluoride gotta know its blocking it Depression crippling lazy thinking I'm not getting anywhere anymore Dated a slick-back sexist slug of a human He haunts me in my dreams I'm trying to dream big dream of everything But his face shows me where I've been His hands done healing flex ****** veins, stop stealing! His mom sewing his mistakes back together again, stop helping! His dad fueling the fire again at home, stop procreating! Its not the job of a lover to raise your significant other Its not my job to shower you with everything I have day after ******* day when all I get in return is leftover pizza and a sore ****** -SOME PEOPLE DON'T KNOW HOW TO LOVE IT IS NOT ON YOU TO SHOW THEM HOW SOME WILL TRY OUT THE MOTIONS WITH OTHER MOTIVATIONS IN MIND BUT LOVE IS NOT JUST AN ACTION IT IS TRULY A LIFESTYLE Without love I would be dead Fill With intention Else you're dead Living isn't that easy Same struggles every day Being healthy isn't that easy Definitely more expensive that way Being human isn't that easy Hunting my own spirit day after day Not wanting Feeling bad Not supporting But loving I have something to say god ****** And don't dare tell me its just the drugs We need to start questioning what love is The lack of it is ******* stuff up I'm high right now if you didn't know it If I was sober would the words still come out You say you love me but you don't support it But how can you love if you don't understand it Love is unconditional Love is support How are you loving when you try to change it There is no fixing my humanity You don't know what makes me happy No one can be trusted Love Choice Choosing To be loved

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Oct 18, 2016

Oct 18, 2016 at 4:27 AM UTC

DersSpeaks

Not It; Cut that ****

What are we doing out here In the wild wild west Are you showing me something Or are we here to rest We've traveled a long road But I'm not ready to settle yet Spider crawling up my arm one day Blood on my quilt the next Blood splot on the bathroom floor Hair chopped off Cut my finger Cut that **** Third eye minds eye know you can open it **** nugs nudging you toward it Chugging fluoride gotta know its blocking it Depression crippling lazy thinking I'm not getting anywhere anymore Dated a slick-back sexist slug of a human He haunts me in my dreams I'm trying to dream big dream of everything But his face shows me where I've been His hands done healing flex ****** veins, stop stealing! His mom sewing his mistakes back together again, stop helping! His dad fueling the fire again at home, stop procreating! Its not the job of a lover to raise your significant other Its not my job to shower you with everything I have day after ******* day when all I get in return is leftover pizza and a sore ****** -SOME PEOPLE DON'T KNOW HOW TO LOVE IT IS NOT ON YOU TO SHOW THEM HOW SOME WILL TRY OUT THE MOTIONS WITH OTHER MOTIVATIONS IN MIND BUT LOVE IS NOT JUST AN ACTION IT IS TRULY A LIFESTYLE Without love I would be dead Fill With intention Else you're dead Living isn't that easy Same struggles every day Being healthy isn't that easy Definitely more expensive that way Being human isn't that easy Hunting my own spirit day after day Not wanting Feeling bad Not supporting But loving I have something to say god ****** And don't dare tell me its just the drugs We need to start questioning what love is The lack of it is ******* stuff up I'm high right now if you didn't know it If I was sober would the words still come out You say you love me but you don't support it But how can you love if you don't understand it Love is unconditional Love is support How are you loving when you try to change it There is no fixing my humanity You don't know what makes me happy No one can be trusted Love Choice Choosing To be loved

61

I am a master seamstress I sew on a grin every day You can never see my seams Careful little stitchings All across the surface At the end of the day I cut every little string I let my sewn smile fall weak I could smile without it But it wouldn't be true Because my cute little smile Is merely a façade The real me hides behind seams She sews to be a survivor The little seamstress I become I am a master seamstress I sew thoughts onto papers The ink could never bleed through My strong tight stitchings Gliding across the blank paper At the edge of the sheet I find myself stopping My stitches want to unravel I have to let them out Because they look so caged So I exterminate my thoughts They never come back to visit I set them free for a reason And it was for them to survive This little seamstress has a heart I am a master seamstress I turn colors into thoughts The thoughts I turn to material The material I turn to beauty The beauty I turn to stitches The stitches heal broken hearts My work is so well known But then they go and leave I do my part and they are pleased I stitch their hearts up They cut some stitchings Right off my patched heart The little strings I use On my seamless tiny grin fray The seamstress I was works no wonders I am a master seamstress I sew the strings onto the puppets They act a lot like I do So I admire their tough hearts They are controlled by another Little hands lift them up And make them walk through life They have their grins plastered on Just like my seamless little smile They prance and fly among us But we never seem to notice them It's like they are invisible Falling upon deaf eyes But I keep them alive Because a seamstress always saves I am a master seamstress I sew what some call impossible I prove them wrong with one stitch Still they see right through me I sewed myself invisibly Don't let them see the real me Don't let them know the seamstress I've sewed their eyes to know Not to look upon me As I fix as I repair They think of me as a fairy Patching up their cuts I'm just a small little figure They never really see That's just the way a seamstress likes I am a master seamstress I sew my wings of thread Wear them proudly like a trophy Every stitch is always perfect They fly up off the wings They soar when I fly up high Drooping when I try to walk My wings are seamless grins They pretend to be when I'm not Just like the little grin of everyday Fly away all you little seams All the little frayed strings Gather up in all my stitchings They look upon the air with care But the seamstress can't fly away anymore I am a master seamstress Sewing up what cannot be fixed by man

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Sep 12, 2017

Sep 12, 2017 at 2:35 PM UTC

ells_roses

Seamstress

I am a master seamstress I sew on a grin every day You can never see my seams Careful little stitchings All across the surface At the end of the day I cut every little string I let my sewn smile fall weak I could smile without it But it wouldn't be true Because my cute little smile Is merely a façade The real me hides behind seams She sews to be a survivor The little seamstress I become I am a master seamstress I sew thoughts onto papers The ink could never bleed through My strong tight stitchings Gliding across the blank paper At the edge of the sheet I find myself stopping My stitches want to unravel I have to let them out Because they look so caged So I exterminate my thoughts They never come back to visit I set them free for a reason And it was for them to survive This little seamstress has a heart I am a master seamstress I turn colors into thoughts The thoughts I turn to material The material I turn to beauty The beauty I turn to stitches The stitches heal broken hearts My work is so well known But then they go and leave I do my part and they are pleased I stitch their hearts up They cut some stitchings Right off my patched heart The little strings I use On my seamless tiny grin fray The seamstress I was works no wonders I am a master seamstress I sew the strings onto the puppets They act a lot like I do So I admire their tough hearts They are controlled by another Little hands lift them up And make them walk through life They have their grins plastered on Just like my seamless little smile They prance and fly among us But we never seem to notice them It's like they are invisible Falling upon deaf eyes But I keep them alive Because a seamstress always saves I am a master seamstress I sew what some call impossible I prove them wrong with one stitch Still they see right through me I sewed myself invisibly Don't let them see the real me Don't let them know the seamstress I've sewed their eyes to know Not to look upon me As I fix as I repair They think of me as a fairy Patching up their cuts I'm just a small little figure They never really see That's just the way a seamstress likes I am a master seamstress I sew my wings of thread Wear them proudly like a trophy Every stitch is always perfect They fly up off the wings They soar when I fly up high Drooping when I try to walk My wings are seamless grins They pretend to be when I'm not Just like the little grin of everyday Fly away all you little seams All the little frayed strings Gather up in all my stitchings They look upon the air with care But the seamstress can't fly away anymore I am a master seamstress Sewing up what cannot be fixed by man

92

This is now. Now is. Don't postpone till then. Spend the spark of iron on stone. Sit at the head of the table; dip your spoon in the bowl. Seat yourself next your joy and have your awakened soul pour wine. Branches in the spring wind, easy dance of jasmine and cypress. Cloth for green robes has been cut from pure absence. You're the tailor, settled among his shop goods, quietly sewing.

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Jul 16, 2016

Jul 16, 2016 at 4:22 PM UTC

irinia

Begin by Rumi

This is now. Now is. Don't postpone till then. Spend the spark of iron on stone. Sit at the head of the table; dip your spoon in the bowl. Seat yourself next your joy and have your awakened soul pour wine. Branches in the spring wind, easy dance of jasmine and cypress. Cloth for green robes has been cut from pure absence. You're the tailor, settled among his shop goods, quietly sewing.

14

I've learned that happiness cannot be found in the form of a little purple capsule. I've learned that Pisa will have to wait until next time. I've learned that the third mushroom held in my sweaty palm was not as big a deal compared to the other two opening my mind. I've learned that a part of me died that night where we ****** in a room with no furniture. I've learned that life is work and that the molotov cocktail of Dubrah and eay mac that came spewing from me left an orange tang upon the floor. I've learned that pain is better than numbness and that jabbing a sewing needle repeatedly in my arm was an educated decision. Most importantly I've learned that together we are better than alone.

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Nov 4, 2013

Nov 4, 2013 at 1:05 PM UTC

Showman

Reflections (What I've Learned In College)

I've learned that happiness cannot be found in the form of a little purple capsule. I've learned that Pisa will have to wait until next time. I've learned that the third mushroom held in my sweaty palm was not as big a deal compared to the other two opening my mind. I've learned that a part of me died that night where we ****** in a room with no furniture. I've learned that life is work and that the molotov cocktail of Dubrah and eay mac that came spewing from me left an orange tang upon the floor. I've learned that pain is better than numbness and that jabbing a sewing needle repeatedly in my arm was an educated decision. Most importantly I've learned that together we are better than alone.

18

I will continue on With my undying passion And will continue to smile Because I contain no compassion I must find a new house This one is getting old I forgot to clean a mess So now the energy is cold I must find my new girl Blonde hair blue eyes She must not get away I'll have to tighten the ties From my truck to the kitchen Everything in fine Until you awaken And realize you are mine That is when you panic And try to scream or yell Little do you notice You've already entered hell I live for sight of pain And will do what I have to To see your eyes roll backwards And witness your lips turn blue I will use whatever device That brings you the most tears So you will not forget my face And I will haunt your fears Even my touch stings your skin Imagine how my knife feels You may cry all you want But I do not make deals There is a reason you were chosen And I am not giving you away All my senses pointed to you Which is why you're now my prey You keep trying to fight back But that just makes it worse For I cannot heal your wounds Because I am not a nurse I regret the way you died I didn't mean to stab your heart It's been 5 weeks and some sewing But you are still falling apart I left the house today I will get over you, but when? Hey, Blonde hair blue eyes There you are again

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Jan 1, 2016

Jan 1, 2016 at 5:56 PM UTC

sara-swiatkowski

Blonde Hair Blue Eyes

I will continue on With my undying passion And will continue to smile Because I contain no compassion I must find a new house This one is getting old I forgot to clean a mess So now the energy is cold I must find my new girl Blonde hair blue eyes She must not get away I'll have to tighten the ties From my truck to the kitchen Everything in fine Until you awaken And realize you are mine That is when you panic And try to scream or yell Little do you notice You've already entered hell I live for sight of pain And will do what I have to To see your eyes roll backwards And witness your lips turn blue I will use whatever device That brings you the most tears So you will not forget my face And I will haunt your fears Even my touch stings your skin Imagine how my knife feels You may cry all you want But I do not make deals There is a reason you were chosen And I am not giving you away All my senses pointed to you Which is why you're now my prey You keep trying to fight back But that just makes it worse For I cannot heal your wounds Because I am not a nurse I regret the way you died I didn't mean to stab your heart It's been 5 weeks and some sewing But you are still falling apart I left the house today I will get over you, but when? Hey, Blonde hair blue eyes There you are again

48

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

0

Mar 8, 2017

Mar 8, 2017 at 1:01 PM UTC

terry-jordan

Invisible Weaving

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

37

I grasp needle and thread Read somewhere That's what I'm suppose to do Clues to how to swallow this Kiss well: Sell your soul piece-by-piece Crease like rayon Crayon melting in the backseat Fragility is my greatest strength. Velvet wrapping paper Over something he Or she Or them Could Or would Or should Never love. Two hands and a brush Cracked lips and ****** teeth. One stitch at a time.

0

Jul 13, 2013

Jul 13, 2013 at 11:27 PM UTC

ann-beaver

Sewing

I grasp needle and thread Read somewhere That's what I'm suppose to do Clues to how to swallow this Kiss well: Sell your soul piece-by-piece Crease like rayon Crayon melting in the backseat Fragility is my greatest strength. Velvet wrapping paper Over something he Or she Or them Could Or would Or should Never love. Two hands and a brush Cracked lips and ****** teeth. One stitch at a time.

20

Men my brothers who after us live, have your hearts against us not hardened. For—if of poor us you take pity, God of you sooner will show mercy. You see us here, attached. As for the flesh we too well have fed, long since it's been devoured or has rotted. And we the bones are becoming ash and dust. Of our pain let nobody laugh, but pray God would us all absolve. If you my brothers I call, do not scoff at us in disdain, though killed we were by justice. Yet þþ you know all men are not of good sound sense. Plead our behalf since we are dead naked with the Son of Mary the ****** that His grace be not for us dried up preserving us from hell's fulminations. We're dead after all. Let no soul revile us, but pray God would us all absolve. Rain has washed us, laundered us, and the sun has dried us black. Worse—ravens plucked our eyes hollow and picked our beards and brows. Never ever have we sat down, but this way, and that way, at the wind's good pleasure ceaselessly we swing 'n swivel, more nibbled at than sewing thimbles. Therefore, think not of joining our guild, but pray God would us all absolve. Prince Jesus, who over all has lordship, care that hell not gain of us dominion. With it we have no business, fast or loose. People, here be no mocking, but pray God would us all absolve.

0

5.4k

Francois Villon

The Ballad Of The Hanged Men

Men my brothers who after us live, have your hearts against us not hardened. For—if of poor us you take pity, God of you sooner will show mercy. You see us here, attached. As for the flesh we too well have fed, long since it's been devoured or has rotted. And we the bones are becoming ash and dust. Of our pain let nobody laugh, but pray God would us all absolve. If you my brothers I call, do not scoff at us in disdain, though killed we were by justice. Yet þþ you know all men are not of good sound sense. Plead our behalf since we are dead naked with the Son of Mary the ****** that His grace be not for us dried up preserving us from hell's fulminations. We're dead after all. Let no soul revile us, but pray God would us all absolve. Rain has washed us, laundered us, and the sun has dried us black. Worse—ravens plucked our eyes hollow and picked our beards and brows. Never ever have we sat down, but this way, and that way, at the wind's good pleasure ceaselessly we swing 'n swivel, more nibbled at than sewing thimbles. Therefore, think not of joining our guild, but pray God would us all absolve. Prince Jesus, who over all has lordship, care that hell not gain of us dominion. With it we have no business, fast or loose. People, here be no mocking, but pray God would us all absolve.

39

At evening, sitting on this terrace, When the sun from the west, beyond Pisa, beyond the mountains of Carrara Departs, and the world is taken by surprise ... When the tired flower of Florence is in gloom beneath the glowing Brown hills surrounding ... When under the arches of the Ponte Vecchio A green light enters against stream, flush from the west, Against the current of obscure Arno ... Look up, and you see things flying Between the day and the night; Swallows with spools of dark thread sewing the shadows together. A circle swoop, and a quick parabola under the bridge arches Where light pushes through; A sudden turning upon itself of a thing in the air. A dip to the water. And you think: "The swallows are flying so late!" Swallows? Dark air-life looping Yet missing the pure loop ... A twitch, a twitter, an elastic shudder in flight And serrated wings against the sky, Like a glove, a black glove thrown up at the light, And falling back. Never swallows! Bats! The swallows are gone. At a wavering instant the swallows gave way to bats By the Ponte Vecchio ... Changing guard. Bats, and an uneasy creeping in one's scalp As the bats swoop overhead! Flying madly. Pipistrello! Black piper on an infinitesimal pipe. Little lumps that fly in air and have voices indefinite, wildly vindictive; Wings like bits of umbrella. Bats! Creatures that hang themselves up like an old rag, to sleep; And disgustingly upside down. Hanging upside down like rows of disgusting old rags And grinning in their sleep. Bats! Not for me!

0

5.4k

D.H. Lawrence

Bat

At evening, sitting on this terrace, When the sun from the west, beyond Pisa, beyond the mountains of Carrara Departs, and the world is taken by surprise ... When the tired flower of Florence is in gloom beneath the glowing Brown hills surrounding ... When under the arches of the Ponte Vecchio A green light enters against stream, flush from the west, Against the current of obscure Arno ... Look up, and you see things flying Between the day and the night; Swallows with spools of dark thread sewing the shadows together. A circle swoop, and a quick parabola under the bridge arches Where light pushes through; A sudden turning upon itself of a thing in the air. A dip to the water. And you think: "The swallows are flying so late!" Swallows? Dark air-life looping Yet missing the pure loop ... A twitch, a twitter, an elastic shudder in flight And serrated wings against the sky, Like a glove, a black glove thrown up at the light, And falling back. Never swallows! Bats! The swallows are gone. At a wavering instant the swallows gave way to bats By the Ponte Vecchio ... Changing guard. Bats, and an uneasy creeping in one's scalp As the bats swoop overhead! Flying madly. Pipistrello! Black piper on an infinitesimal pipe. Little lumps that fly in air and have voices indefinite, wildly vindictive; Wings like bits of umbrella. Bats! Creatures that hang themselves up like an old rag, to sleep; And disgustingly upside down. Hanging upside down like rows of disgusting old rags And grinning in their sleep. Bats! Not for me!

44

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

0

Sep 14, 2011

Sep 14, 2011 at 8:16 PM UTC

shiloh-morrison

Crochet

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

11

kept inside my broken heart i struggle every day to mend, but sewing away the loose threads softly and passionately are your lips

0

Jan 27, 2015

Jan 27, 2015 at 8:04 PM UTC

eliza-t

kiss

kept inside my broken heart i struggle every day to mend, but sewing away the loose threads softly and passionately are your lips

4