"sews" poems
*He’s no musician.
He doesn't make melodies through violin and guitar strings.
Yet he composed, haunting ballads in dramatic tempos,
Rhyming every lyric,
Harmonizing, making it dance in a musical euphony.
He’s no seamster.
Yet he cuts and he traces,
plain words and printed phrases;
Then he sews and he weaves it skilfully,
into a lovely concrete poetry.
He’s no painter.
He just has a palette of pigmented letters,
splashing colorful lines on his blank canvass.
A blast of contained evocative memories,
Streaking and shading mixtures of kaleidoscopic imagery.
He’s no storyteller.
Yet from him, I heard the most romantic tales-
One, of the moon and its lover sea.
Reciprocating shy glances, whispering I love you’s,
while kissing behind the sprawling mountains.
Though the dawn will come, they do not fear.
For after the majestic tribal sun leaves his stage,
There’ll the lovers be once again reunited.
He's no poet.
Yet he writes--
stanzas and verses.
And oh! it revives,
every strand of emotion,
every sense of intuition,
Inside me.
A lyrical perception,
Sheer perfection,
Arousing perpetual reactions,
From me.*
Mar 30, 2015
Mar 30, 2015 at 6:47 AM UTC
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
19.3k
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
Sep 12, 2017
Sep 12, 2017 at 2:35 PM UTC
The swallow of summer, she toils all the summer,
A blue-dark knot of glittering voltage,
A whiplash swimmer, a fish of the air.
But the serpent of cars that crawls through the dust
In shimmering exhaust
Searching to slake
Its fever in ocean
Will play and be idle or else it will bust.
The swallow of summer, the barbed harpoon,
She flings from the furnace, a rainbow of purples,
Dips her glow in the pond and is perfect.
But the serpent of cars that collapsed on the beach
Disgorges its organs
A scamper of colours
Which roll like tomatoes
Nude as tomatoes
With sand in their creases
To cringe in the sparkle of rollers and screech.
The swallow of summer, the seamstress of summer,
She scissors the blue into shapes and she sews it,
She draws a long thread and she knots it at the corners.
But the holiday people
Are laid out like wounded
Flat as in ovens
Roasting and basting
With faces of torment as space burns them blue
Their heads are transistors
Their teeth grit on sand grains
Their lost kids are squalling
While man-eating flies
Jab electric shock needles but what can they do?
They can climb in their cars with raw bodies, raw faces
And start up the serpent
And headache it homeward
A car full of squabbles
And sobbing and stickiness
With sand in their crannies
Inhaling petroleum
That pours from the foxgloves
While the evening swallow
The swallow of summer, cartwheeling through crimson,
Touches the honey-slow river and turning
Returns to the hand stretched from under the eaves -
A boomerang of rejoicing shadow.
4.3k
The tiny town's
talented tailor
swiftly sews silken suits,
in his shop he plays the Wailers,
Bob Marley fills his boots.
Beside his shop
sits Susie's Sushie,
she serves him lunch
every Tuesday,
he leaves a tip because
she treats him well,
he's got a crush
and she can tell.
After lunch
it's back to work,
measuring here
and stitching there,
everything is done
just savoirfaire.
All the town folk
say he is the master,
he smiles at this
and works all the faster.
Then on the corner
the clock strikes five,
with the last suit hung
he says enough of this jive.
He shuts the light
and locks the door,
nine bells tomorrow
he'll be back for more.
Jun 16, 2012
Jun 16, 2012 at 8:33 AM UTC
“She toddled in the mighty Duck
And almost never was”
Whether by design or luck
Or maybe just because
Summertime in Tennessee
So scorching hot and dry
The family thought a swim could be
Relief so we would try
While swimming came so easy
For most of us that day
But Mom was water queasy
So on the bank she lay
My friend and I, we swam like fish
In the deep Duck River
A day that would make you wish
This fun could last forever
My baby sister was so small
She could barely walk
She toddled and then down would fall
And jabbered with her talk
So Dad had moved into the deep
That’s when I saw it well
My sister ran without a peep
Into the Duck she fell
Momma screamed and I just froze
And out of sight she went
The muddy Duck would now propose
Another life be spent
My Dad had sprung to action
On hearing of the scream
He dived as a reaction
Into the muddy stream
.
.
.
And many years would pass us by
She studied hard and long
Nothing was too tough to try
She never got it wrong
A Ph.D and drug design
She makes the pills you need
If you were really in a bind
And needed meds indeed
She plays piano and reads the books
And knows so much inside
She sews and cleans and then she cooks
With logic as her guide
Accomplishments on every level
Complete and tried and true
But humble, never would she revel
In all that she could do
.
.
.
He came back up and looked around
His eyes began to beg
He dived again and there he found
And grabbed her by the leg
Upside down he pulled her up
And water did pour out
And soon we heard her cry startup
Relief without a doubt
.
.
.
Remembering that day and so
A blessing to repay
That was sixty years ago
But feels like yesterday
I sometimes think of all the luck
That happened just because
“She toddled in the mighty Duck
And almost never was”
Nov 1, 2022
Nov 1, 2022 at 5:18 PM UTC
So seeing at the feet of the cross was Mary Magdalene looking for one last time in her soul lover's eyes before the death of love (Eros?)
But in the distance is the Gnosis Knight Jason watching this scene of utter Substituted Love - (Bearing one another's burdens) this Eros (Romantic Love and Passion) in action?
The death of duality and the unitive power and wisdom of God; yes the bringing together in the bridal chamber of the groom and bride in loves Eros type death in cosmic reality?
The Gnosis Knight Jason comes close to the cross smiles at Mary Magdalene and whispers do you see by my eyes Mary?
I see two Christ's becoming Unitive in Jesus and his body, male and female?
I see Chokmâh (Wisdom) also on the cross in death with her husband part of Christ?
This is Eros (Romantic Love and Passion) of The Christ,
This is Eros (Romantic Love and Passion) of The Christ,
This is Eros (Romantic Love and Passion) of The Christ,
So I see Chokmâh with a full Red Rose Crown on the temple of the Christ; this is on the blessed head of Jesus, the son of humanity?
Then Jesus gives up the Eros (Romantic Love and Passion ) and dies?
The sky turns black to say is LOVE (Eros, the Romantic Love and Passion) really dead?
Then they take the body of Jesus to the garden tomb to plant the Rose Bush Seed of Love (Eros, Romantic Love and Passionate Love) in the earth for three days to grow into the fullness of Agape (Universal Love?)
Then Mary Magdalene waits in the bridal chamber (human heart) she keeps the hope and knowing Love's Passion is stronger than death itself?
The Gnosis Knight Jason is waiting to see his Queen Chokmâh (Wisdom) come from the garden tomb as well?
Then on that blessed morning Mary Magdalene says the blessed words my Teacher?
The rest of the story is known.
But Gnosis Knight Jason sees a woman caring for a budding Rose bush and she turn's and smiles; yes Knight Jason; It is I the Queen part of Christ; Chokmâh (Wisdom) Herself?
So The Queen Chokmâh (Wisdom) says to the Queen's Hand; the Knight Jason; it is I, Chokmâh (Wisdom) Herself Again?
Because Her Knight Jason was shocked and never answered the first time?
Because he thought she really is apart of The fullness of Christ Itself?
Then the good Knight Jason answer's; I am not worthy to be your blessed hand my Queen?
But the Queen lets her Knight give her a sweet kiss on her Blessed and Holy lips to make Knight Jason's unworthy lips clean again?
So this sweet holy kiss to make his lips worthy and clean in Cosmic Reality?
The Knight Jason replies - "Thus from my lips by thine my sin is purged."
Then the Knight Jason asks my Queen am I also begotten and reborn by the sweet loves holy kiss in Cosmic Reality?
The Queen Smiles and says that is how the children of Wisdom are begotten in Cosmic Reality.
Then he kneels and she crown's her knight; a king of her unitive gospel of Wisdom and Life?
Then Chokmâh (Wisdom) says She will give you a Red Rose Garland to grace your head and present you with a glorious Red Rose crown.
The Bridal Chamber is now open for unitive Wisdom to enter into the blessed garden of the groom and bride once more in Cosmic Reality?
Now the Knight Jason And King rides from that garden tomb with Chokmâh (Wisdom) before all time in Cosmic Reality?
You see Knight Jason sees Red Rose Petals falling from Heaven before her blessed feet in Cosmic Reality bringing The Love, The Passion Of The Love, Friendship and True Life before Her everywhere She goes in Cosmic Reality?
The Rose Fragrance of Chokmâh (Wisdom) fills Cosmic Reality Itself with the Sweet Fragrance of Love and Life and The Fragrance fill's The Groom's And The Brides of Cosmic Reality Itself?
This adds the sweet Rose Fragrance to the bridal chamber of bridal chambers in Cosmic Reality?
The Knight Jason's symbol of love and romance is a single Red Rose to give this single Red Rose to his sister bride in Cosmic Reality?
But Christ's Passion is this Romantic Love And Passion Overcomes death; this death is not to stop the anger of God falling on humanity from The Father and The Mother parts of God?
But it is a unitive Substituted Love to bring unitive power and wisdom to craft together groom and bride again in Cosmic Reality?
This is to bring unitive power and wisdom and craft together the duel flames of Adam and Eve in the bridal chamber again in Cosmic Reality?
So Chokmâh (Wisdom) Crafts and Sews together The Wedding Garments of the Male and the Female Knights of the Unitive Kingdom of The Single One in Cosmic Reality?
So human wedlock in the flesh is a symbol of a higher Cosmic type wedlock?
So romantic love and human wedlock is the door way to the garden and the bridal chamber of chambers in Cosmic Reality?
So the Romance and Passion of Christ is this,
This is Eros (Romantic Love and Passion) of The Christ,
This is Eros (Romantic Love and Passion) of The Christ,
This is Eros (Romantic Love and Passion) of The Christ.
Jan 30, 2022
Jan 30, 2022 at 11:01 AM UTC
from time to time
there is a romance of being alone
the imaginations she powdered
generously upon the colorless reality.
metaphors that she sews upon the sleeves
of melancholy.
her girlfriends and she roamed
the ups and downs of the earth,
while their mothers screamed
for them to be ladylike.
saturday afternoons,
they procrastinated upon pastries and honey
crystallized fairy tales
courteous animals
riding on the coattail of dreams
a lighthearted feeling others tried to snooze.
they observe things through glitters of their vapor.
they dote on the humor of ice creams
and sunlight of scarlet pink.
as we laugh with charm,
what a way with words,
a lopsided smile,
a head of curls,
a flock of girls.
Aug 15, 2017
Aug 15, 2017 at 1:47 PM UTC
little girl, you better hold on
hold on tight to the charcoal
sturdiness of a railing, to the
warmth emitting from the
barrier of your father's arm, for
the bus would bring you there
once, twice, a hundred times
to the first turbulence of a
flight you are onboard from the
very start, and like that tedious
twenty-two hours to america
like the cousins who followed
the eldest, coolest brother up
hanging on an escalator track
turbulences come one, another
until the odyssey sews to a close
along with your shredded dreams
your corrupted perceptions, your
wrinkles, your bruised, weary heart
which would thus lay within your
burnt, soulless corpse
Sep 16, 2013
Sep 16, 2013 at 1:07 PM UTC
She sews..her needle hot
Stitching her words
Into my thoughts
Repairing a tear
Here and there
A knot drawn tight
Nimble and quick
Thimble silver
Her verse sharp
A rip in the heart
Stitched in time
To stop the flow
My lips sealed
with silken gold
Threading gently
Into the night.
r ~ 8/21/14
Aug 21, 2014
Aug 21, 2014 at 9:30 PM UTC
Overwhelmed is a term tossed around to the point of underwelming.
I am a depressed person in a glass cage, with no way to hide my fear.
Like a million little cuts across my body, and not a **** one distracts me from myself.
I feel like I'm pounding on the glass screaming, "I wish you would just be happy!"
I'm a depressed person wanting telling a depressed person the worst things to say to depressed people.
The irony is a silent needle that sews the lips shut.
Pretend you're alseep while pretending to be alive.
I sacrifice myself for others worthy of the life.
Exhausting to carry their burdens, and the tears they can't actually cry.
Faces rest in palms as if hands are any sort of shelter.
Inability to let things go makes me feel like I have to rip them apart.
Living like this makes you ill beyond belief.
All I want is a good night's sleep.
Feb 2, 2019
Feb 2, 2019 at 7:37 AM UTC
His gaze veiled in a layer of clouds, he looks down upon us with such contempt
A perfect being, driven by such flawed emotions
A jovial comic, or an angry father
A split-personality sadist with a hell of a sense of humor
We gathered any words that he might have said
And transcribed them into our own human jumble
Every syllable uttered, down to a trace of a sigh
Molded to yield to our instincts
Dominance and glory, all in the name of “love”
His favorite son walks on water, did you know?
But the naughty children have a special place to go
If they dare disobey their strict father
It’s in every breath within us, shining in every ray of light
The human will to be, spawned from hands not our own?
It pillages towns, and takes innocent lives
Of those who chose against
The word of the “wise”
It sews our eyes shut from the ugly world of enlightenment
And guides the sheep away from the forbidden trail
The heathens reside on the other side of the river
And only the sinners dare to build a boat
Jun 12, 2010
Jun 12, 2010 at 4:04 PM UTC
Back home,
There is a boy
With red hair, freckles,
And eyes the shade of blue
His mother calls "lady killers."
He's colorblind;
At least enough to believe
In jellyfish.
His father builds houses
With a rib-less heart
The boy calls home.
His mother,
Sews trust with her spine.
And thirty years later
They still find love
In the lonely isles of
The local Laneco.
His teacher says
He needs a pen pal,
So after school
He writes to me:
"Hi, how are you."
"I'm fine, thanks, and you?"
And then he asks me
What it's like to be
"Grown up"
And just how many
Stars I've scarred
With nothing but the rusty
Edge of my name.
So I fold the
Envelope of this
Crinkled heart into a letter
Of tattered Bibles
From hotel drawers of
Lost loves and dead friends
And find the courage
To tell him what
Being a man means.
I tell him:
We call it growing up
Because boulders
Always roll down.
It's refusing CPR
For every time you drown
In your own pride.
It's loving a girl
For every time she tried.
Tried to
Convince your tunnel vision
That her body is not a cave.
That respecting a woman
Is more important
Than how well you pave
Your parking lot heart.
Shallow like a baking pan.
This is an apology.
For every man
Who ever thought a woman's body
Is the only temple worth praying to.
Making four leaf clovers
From petals of roses
Trying to get lucky.
I know it's not lovely,
To kiss someone who
Is so constantly
Full of ********
And I'll admit it.
I'm not yet
Where I need to be
But I thank God
That I'm no longer
Where I use to
See I'm used to
Smoking way too many
*** scenes to know that
There is not enough
Alcohol in the world
To ever clear my mind.
And I have caused way
Too many Prozac commercials
To know that there is
No effective dosage
For this disorder
Of indecency.
To know that it is
No measure of good health
To be well adjusted
To a sick society
Of mechanical men
Always worried about
Who and when they're going
To plug into.
So I tell him:
You are not a robot,
A computer, or a program.
And your choices are the only
Thing that will ever make you a man.
So strap up your boots,
Bury the ashes,
Shake the dust,
And dandelion your
Heart in every
Direction of home.
But most importantly,
Go easy on the ladies;
Because
The older I get and
More I learn about myself
The more I'm writing
With my eraser
Than with anything else.
Dec 3, 2015
Dec 3, 2015 at 12:39 PM UTC
Congratulations on your victory
it’s a shame the blood got on your clothes,
but each blade and pin you stick in me
will stain each and every thread anyone sews.
I hope that you are feeling proud
that you still have the power to wound,
as you want it known and shouted loud
“look at another thing I successfully ruined”
Go on and paint me as the villain,
just make sure that you’ve shaded well.
Every inch of the canvas is filled in,
express that story and scene that you wish to tell.
I’m not going to beg for mercy,
I’m not going to call you a hack.
I’m just sorry you see the worst in me,
if I was a mirror I’d be reflecting it back.
Well done on your gigantic win
I know the scene isn’t set exactly right,
ignore the blood, the guts and the skin,
we’ll have it cleaned by tomorrow’s first light.
Continue to embrace your golden moment,
though you didn’t have to work too hard.
Good fortune and a carefully picked opponent;
one who was already stressed and scarred.
Go on, cast me as an antagonist
but make it believable in each line.
Illustrate my hand holding a demand list,
but my other one has a white flag hidden behind.
I’m not going to plead for forgiveness
and I’m not searching for approval,
because when something is as vicious as this sickness
it’s a quick call for it’s removal.
This isn’t an invasion
it takes two sides to fight a war,
and you’ve given every clear indication
this is what you’ve been waiting for.
We don’t need bullets or guns,
we don’t need forces in the air or sea,
‘cause we’ve both got our mouths, and our tongues,
and a lot of repressed ancient history.
Aug 28, 2021
Aug 28, 2021 at 8:37 AM UTC
These eyes of mine
Have seen
Beyond the imaginary lines of being,
A broken heart mend over the written word shared by those whose wisdom has surpassed time,
Beautiful sunsets painted over gray lines by poets who know that you'll never know the true meaning of joy without a little pain paving the way.
I have wandered in the caves of those who dare to etch their souls on paper, and shun their thoughts to wondering eyes,
To give meaning to the lives of many, direction to the gypsey, and a mender for the torn,
Walked more than a mile in shoes of so many to find the quintessence of broken glasses, the epitome of troubled souls, and the essence of being,
Beautiful melodies that soothe the soul through the ears of a deaf man,
The rhythm of a heart in love that sickens the soul, invades the thoughts and leaves every inch of the body longing,
A memory of a love so precious, unforgettable that it's fragrance lingers still from a distant memory,
And when all is lost and plundered,
Your words are like a thread that sews patch after patch across my torn silhouette
It's a pleasure
To have read so many inspiring, beautiful and heartfelt poetry in here.
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 5:36 PM UTC
I want to talk.
I need to talk to you.
But this distance sews my mouth.
I want to eat greasy African food with you.
While you remind me to eat my greens too.
But this distance keeps me starving.
I want to touch your chest
While you grab my face and grace my lips.
But this distance wont let us graze upon each others skins.
I want to laugh with you, at me, at you.
But there's nothing funny about this distance.
How is this ideal?
I can't deal
With detachment
My already loose heart.
Swings and ties around you
Not to keep you locked
But to swing to universes that you thought your gravity kept you from.
Yet you cut my chords
And pick it up every now and then
When you supposedly can.
We can't be friends.
Not now at least.
Love me
This distance feels like you hate me.
How can you call this intimacy?
Feb 21, 2016
Feb 21, 2016 at 9:39 PM UTC
I stand naked in front of the mirror. It looks back at me, its eyes don’t seem to follow myne. I can hear it’s thoughts as it says, “you ugly fool, why do you even bother with me…” It whispers every single one of my flaws to me and darkness fills my peripheral vision and they are all I can see. A strange, black being enters the empty, dark room and shoves a sewing needle into my ugly, skinny, white arms and then sews the rest of the string into the arms in the mirror. The beast shoves the needle into my ugly, brown eyes and connects the string to the ones in the mirror. Once every one of my flaws has been connected to my reflection I stand there stuck. The beast watches me scream in agonizing pain for hours, days, years. I think to myself, “this is no way to live,” and I go to throw my arm back, then hesitate, then I do it. I throw back my arm and I watch as the string gets ripped from my flesh. The searing pain hits me and then almost immediately the wound heals itself but it leaves a scar. I throw my head back and the strings rip from my face. The beast watches and cries, it seems to be in pain as I pull out my strings. Each missing string makes it weaker and weaker. It tries to fight me, to stop me. I resist and continue to pull out the strings. Once I get all of the strings out the beast bursts into light and the once dark and eerie room becomes bright and white. I now wear heavy, thick, soft, white robes all over my body. I turn to look at the beast and it is a beautiful pink light. The mirror had a golden frame and when I look into it I see me. I see my perfect imperfections.
END
Sep 5, 2018
Sep 5, 2018 at 7:55 AM UTC
Into his heart she wished to peer
To glimpse a shade of his crippling fear.
These feelings she claimed as just a murmur to sense
Of deep loss, unknown sadness, and loneliness.
From where he came baggage weighed him down
To where she found him toiling around.
Listing and rolling on an open sea
A broken man he was, so sure was she.
A place to pile pity, sadness, and sorrow high
To fill a hole in her own mind's eye.
A project, a task, a falcon with clipped wing;
Perfect - for a broken man can only be a summer fling.
A date written in sand to bring the curtain down
Leaves nothing to invest; nothing to lose in a waning town.
Help she will not, 'tis not her place
For when summer sets - off to another race.
What does one do when magnificent marble cracks to its core?
Take on the mantle of repair as their chivalrous chore?
For when one finds a thing more broken than they
Pious self-righteousness illuminates their way.
Always the better a thing that is broken
For it leaves that which lies beneath always unknown.
Talents and treasures in a life yet to live
Are the things that a broken man has yet to give.
For broken is mended through time and reflection
And then is when she might make a connection.
Yet a connect is impossible when hubris abounds
For painted already is a picture that confounds.
Perception turns to reality as mud turns to stone;
A broken man always is as she chooses to be shone.
Just as a broken plate, glass, or jar are easily discarded
A broken man is one who is also easily departed.
As fracture turns to crack and crack turns to decay
That which is broken knows only one of two ways.
To stay broken forever discarded as dust
Or to mend, heal, and repair the broken man must.
As the swift needle of time sews shut his ripped heart
The broken man realizes in this play he still has a part.
Realization that his role does not intertwine with her
Sets the broken man looking for what can only be a cure.
With grout, cement, and epoxy he sets to piece himself together
The broken man works diligently to fill in each fissure.
And as his new form takes shape he can confidently say
A broken man is not forever - only a detour off life's highway.
Lost in that summer was opportunity for more.
Voices and laughter fading with no encore.
A sadness swells in the throat behind the tongue
A song left to sing, but no song is sung.
The broken man mended whole once again,
He'll always look fondly where whence he has been.
Nov 16, 2018
Nov 16, 2018 at 1:36 PM UTC
Thou no work can in truth be done
Ye may count hours had of fun
Ye may think that tbou hast won
Yet it goes and goes
Lest long hours make ye sad
Try in earnest to be glad
I forbid thee from feeling bad
Nature sews and sews
Like lions roaring shiny pelt
Your noble actions are well felt
Pride young one is how its spelt
Worship of the Jos
Know in you we'll not forget it
Singing high from every pulpit
Have your celebration biscuit
Abandoned are all woes
Joyful joyful those around you
Praise and adoration on cue
Blazing celebrations for you
In happiness' throes.
Mar 31, 2015
Mar 31, 2015 at 5:32 PM UTC
She sews her wounds with silver thread
Not all storm clouds bear silver linings, you were mislead
Silver scars shimmer in the sun
Beautiful reminders of the battles that she's won
Sep 14, 2017
Sep 14, 2017 at 6:47 PM UTC
From within a blackened heart
spawns madnesses twisted Invictus,
a severed head sat atop a plinth, filled
with decaying thoughts of cyanide and citrus,
completely crazy, inverted, perverted,
infected with an insanity that dances from the eyes -
pouting lips tempestuous and alluring
from the tip of a tongue he sews insidious lies,
roosting upon the bleeding emotions of others
a vile disassociation sanity can't pertain,
charred lips from suckling the ******* of Hell
the back-broke miracle nature refuses to explain,
exhaling noxious fumes, a pyro-manic incense,
one soul re-arranged, deranged and blisteringly intense;
so much so, it disgusts me beyond words -
so kick the rotten apple,
watch the maggots writhe within thou sour curds.
Apr 21, 2015
Apr 21, 2015 at 5:56 PM UTC
as rain brusquely clears a
window's record, and a screen
grays the glinting heads of
drops.
as the bacon-brittle bars of a
fire escape press against the
dully scratched green of
distant trees.
melancholy skims the ears,
sews shut their fetal-shaped
holes.
May 5, 2017
May 5, 2017 at 12:02 PM UTC
One Reaps what he sews
Working hard to be granted the brighter way.
Such ingredients add up
To a better product.
Something created on a brighter day...
.Threads are made of strands
of despair's tears or strands of true love's strands
Sew with the lesser of these two strengths
Your life's fabric rips apart
One must resew the parts
of life's broken cloth
Once sewed with the wrong thread
One must refinish the quilt of life
to mend together one's self
If one doesn't succeed and fails to strengthen a mend
such actions will lead him to a colder day.
Through hard travels, work, and ways in which to obtain the brighter strands
The seamstress inside of you must find the right spool
Though against all odds, to the more evilest of another, you win by making
a true hearten stand.
Against what he stood for. You knocked his energy down.
You earned his golden threads of truth and love.
You go back to your quilt and sew back together the pieces
Warming up the nights as you sleep under a well made
Cover, upon your chilled body, that you earned to
Cover your weakness under and down.
May 16, 2016
May 16, 2016 at 11:29 PM UTC