"stitchings" poems
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 LORD & I have been arguing for days
over four small words:
[thy will be done.]
let this be known:
never is there a bigger sacrifice
than compromising the cloth that has woven your soul,
choosing to burn its textile
rather than cling to its strong stitchings & worn-in, familiar pattern,
leaving you in nothing but incinerated rags.
I plea for maintained remains of
this combusted fallacy of joy,
whilst He responds with simply
[I am making all things new.]
please hear this:
there is truly nothing that can mend you here,
nothing that can weave you together &
save your heart from being torn
as a love letter ripped into shreds of its possibilities,
leaving you with nothing but
disintegrated
dreams.
my past is aching to become my present,
& my perceived future has begun to rewind.
my place in this world has become null&void;
without the hope I once held close.
for what happens to a princess
when her earthly prince continues to commit slow suicide?
[peace, My child.]
I can hear my bones screaming to be heard,
as songs on a broken record,
stuck on repeating the same old refrain:
*please please please please please…
[on earth as it is in Heaven.]*
night sweats--
when your mind cannot stop running even whilst you sleep.
shaking limbs—
when your heart trembles & begs to stay alive.
*[plans to prosper you, not harm you;
plans for hope & a future.]*
I’m strung out on all these things that keep me sane
while my mind feels like its going through
withdrawals of the Holy Spirit—
WHERE ARE YOU, GOD
& WHY IS THIS YOUR PLAN?
YOU DO NOT LOVE ME AS YOU ONCE DID.
[those who hope in the LORD renew their strength.]
laying on my bedroom floor
with hymns pouring from my mouth
like tongues of fire & bile
I feel farther from glory
than I ever have.
[He restores my soul.]
LORD
as Christ once begged of you
Take This Cup,
LORD
I plea
for deliverance
for reconciliation
for an exodus from this body that is
full of intoxication
& self-loathing.
[until the very end of the age.]
LET MY SPIRIT RISE FROM THE ASHES
& BE HEALED OF THIS HORROR.
Feb 5, 2014
Feb 5, 2014 at 3:18 PM UTC
Ancient stitchings embedded in skin
A reminder of Demons lurking within
Of who I once was, and all we could be
A fate that I knew, but now it's just me
A love that was shared and spread like disease
Emotions that sent a tree to its knees
Tearing limbs, and lungs, and hearts to the floor
From nights spent begging, pleading, and more
A passion foregone, or obsession amiss
My sacred reality, come now to this
One question is left, to finish your game
Can you divide one into two and remain unchanged
Feb 23, 2011
Feb 23, 2011 at 9:23 PM UTC
I arrived--
though I needn't a formal invite,
for you and I, we are two old friends.
Companions walking along
a similar trail.
The leaves distort and distress the
yellow and gleaming light of the
victorious Sun, who has once again
conquered Night and all
her iniquities.
Scents and colors fill the air,
pinks and reds and greens mix and match
and blend together, forming
a rich atmosphere of synesthetic remarkableness.
Each atom and molecule
of the wind
shivers and shakes atop their
invisible chariots,
perhaps the true location of Atlas
and those great, big hunks of
shoulders;
"Man, what a man."
Take it because you know you like it--
we are social creatures,
creatures of logic
of habit
creatures of horribly idiosyncratic and idle instinct,
rulers of fleshy bodies
which we hardly understand.
The Sun grimaces as it
retreats back to the negative air,
once again,
not to poke its radiant face out until
the next morning.
The Moon came shimmering out,
smiling furtively and compactly,
looking down like
my oldest confidante.
After all,
who else but our fair
Luna atop the stars
is the keeper of all our deepest
and most primal
secrets?
In the cover of her noxy cloak
we sin and hide,
pushing every secret under and between
the cracks in her space,
patching up time and
keeping dark and brooding Atlas
good company.
"You're one of the few great guys."
Oh, my fat and failing Atlas,
lover for the Night and
of my night,
you are a temporary stop on
my trail,
a brief twilight in my
life's journey.
The Sun creeps its
spindly, golden fingers under
the cloak of the Moon,
Night: the stitchings and
sewings of the sins of mortal men.
Playfully, the light stretches out,
first dancing along the stage of the horizon,
then inching closer,
desperate for living contact,
for the greatest warmth of
over 2 billion hearts
all beating at once--
perfectly,
in time.
Our world is a note on
this Cosmic sheet music;
you are barely a splotch on the sheet.
Our existence is the single beat
out of infinite others,
without a beginning but
possibly and end.
I know that
there will be twists in my path,
bending and curving to avoid the
stars' wrath and the Suns'
might,
but,
might it be
that our two trails
are simply
not meant to meet?
Jun 16, 2012
Jun 16, 2012 at 3:55 AM UTC
"We are the witnesses to how alike all men bleed."
Man our easel, we stretch clean canvas over scarlet brushstrokes,
We work stitchings like guitar strings,
find a melody in the mending,
hide scars like bass, in clean skin,
and hide the pain from each ending.
Their lungs sing.
An alto for death's row,
its sound makes your heart slow.
Let's see what you have inside,
with open eyes, your mother cried,
in toupe-walled rooms, we cut the cord,
no savage mark by a doctor's sword.
Just silence and sadness,
greyness and madness,
long halls and dancers,
small windows and glances.
Feb 24, 2017
Feb 24, 2017 at 4:51 AM UTC
i remember
in an autumn thunderstorm,
you clung desperately to me underneath our umbrella
you told me you were scared of storms, but that you loved them, and i find now that that was the best way to describe my love for you.
a storm that brewed.
but a storm that i grew attached to.
i fell in love with you in thunderous explosions of orange and blue
the fall was our favorite season but i had no idea just what the **** i was falling into
i thought that when i looked into your eyes i’d realized what i really truly wanted in my life
and that was to be healed by those god **** eyes
thunder shook you but lightning bounced straight from your throat and into my chest
you stopped my heart
you left me with a nasty scar that clung to me like doctor’s stitchings.
so i tore at them,
ripping charred flesh from my muscles almost as swiftly as my pen strokes against paper
it became muscle memory
and those memories of us beneath that clouding sky weigh me down
shackling and chaining me to your promises
grounded on the cracking asphalt of your street titled clover but that street was anything but lucky for us
because it had more potholes than your ******* promises
i have waited a month and a half to write this poem
and the only thing that has kept me awake until three in the morning
was the fact that you had the nerve to cling to the sweater in the bottom drawer of my nightstand
stained with your promises, your memory, your fears and your bravery
every glance, touch, kiss, smile, punch, tear, tear of fabric,
and every booming sob that left my body for the first time in five years
i can’t even cry when i read my writing about you
that was another aspect of me you clinged to
and something i couldn’t cling to
do you know how much damage you’ve dealt me?
mirrors i gaze into feel cracked
shards of glass better describing who i am now than who i once was
broken
and you broke me human
but still used me
as your umbrella
like i was worth something
worth more than all the things you’d made me
in an autumn thunderstorm
Mar 8, 2015
Mar 8, 2015 at 9:44 PM UTC
Hath mighty gods placed ye among the stars?
Those heavenly eyes that gaze down at us?
Those stitchings of ethereal pale scars?
Nay, I see the moon only, its beams combust.
Wherefore art thou the one we don't deserve?
Thou shouldst be soaring as an angel soars.
Then I would espy, if I had the nerve.
And you'd tear my mask, the one I once wore.
Wouldst thou grace me with thine beauty, seraph?
or wouldst thou blind me with effervescence?
Wouldst thou judge me, in hand your black tariff?
Or wouldst thou make mineself evanescent?
For now, I dream within my dream, my love.
And I glance upward, smiling at you above.
Nov 10, 2012
Nov 10, 2012 at 6:05 PM UTC
Skits
so-so-
soothing
Sweet
.nothings...
All me stitchings. - - -
He
draws
you
To fetch the
Sketch
By the bed
clock
Virginity- lock
Birds
the
word B, S,
White
feather
Storks
Bothered
Talking to
himself
Kvetching
Earth to me
myself
All looped in
Silvery earrings
His eyes
deep-set
piercing
It took
nine
years
He finally hears me!
He's the
tiger___*
TV Skits
watcher
I am
itching
for
something
Higher reach +
nails
scratching
Her
private
eye
Gel
FBI packs
LoL
His
Virginia
Slim
lady
Acting isn't
her
thing
Earthling Amen
A-Man morning
stretching
The best time?
Be
on
time___*
No
time
Traveling
He's in
my way
his
presence
Anger!!
manage-men
Those
noisy
women
Yentas----
He
is
cursing
Like
a tourist
accidental
Jungle-Maniac
The African
forest
Green money
Sin-shine yellow
Bananas
Jane goes
Panama
His skits
Drinking up
Werewolf wealth
bills
Clinton X presidential
All bits Teenager zits
Whitehouse
Superheros -Zebras
Lined
black
All taken the white
I will betcha
All complainers
Dreamers
Those Black and
White cookies
Computer
cookies
Ripley
believe
she splits
The
wedding
Never bound
to
happen
No, I love
you
heading?
Here to Earth
Eulogy
Why was it
Not
white
Turned out
black
The funeral
The maze tunnel
A part of you
He left his heart
in San Francisco
In the Island
of Marco
The olive oil
Ceco
His love skits
Ciao now Bella
Take the gun
Come to Papa
My cannolis
Love fit wine and they eat
More skits to their beat
What a **** hot fiasco
May 12, 2018
May 12, 2018 at 11:32 AM UTC
Have you ever seen a pair of Nine West Folowe Pumps in Red Blooms Floral - or ever held a feathery pair? They offer the pure pleasure of perfection.
You can see them popping up lately, in streetwear silhouette, matched with Dolce & Gabbana’s floral-print leggings, making a duet of blooms—petal upon petal, like a garden in motion, or paired with the new, high-waisted barrel leg jeans, lending a flash of elegance, a bright flourish against dull denim.
They’re visions, wrought as if by the hand of Michelangelo, who once from marble freed David’s pose, or da Vinci, whose brush summoned the Mona Lisa’s secret smile.
In form, they’re d’Orsay cut, sporting curves as deliberate as the Sistine vaults arch. The stiletto heels rise with the ambition of a cathedral’s spire - neither too proud nor too meek, but balanced, like the symmetry of a butterfly’s painted wings.
Upon their surface, blood red blooms unfurl - petals as vivid as spring’s first flush - each blossom a testament to an artist’s hand, in riots of color and romance that dance with the same spirit as a flowerbed at dawn.
No flaws mar their making: the stitchings are true, the fits precise—as if tailored by the muses themselves. Each pair offers its own unique foliations, bespeaking the freedom of a craftsman’s careful art.
Lastly, of course, they’re marvels of harmonious function, lightly cradling and lifting each step - comfort and glamour aren’t adversaries here, but partners in making each step a sonnet and each stride an artist's brushstroke.
Now, maybe you aren’t into fashion - perhaps you’re a male - oh, poor you, I’m sorry, but maybe, just maybe, in times of chaos, you long for the pleasure of inexpensive perfection.
.
.
Songs for this:
Glamour Girl by Louie Austen
This is what falling in love feels like by JVKE
Jun 26, 2025
Jun 26, 2025 at 3:47 PM UTC
do i really have to wear a sign
so you know what im feeling
or does the hunger in my eyes suffice
i wonder if can you see me at all
if you can see the facade of a heart
that ive placed on my sleeve
the heart that was made from
too many mistakes and
too many lies
but if you look close enough
if you and only you look close enough
you will see that it is frayed
at the stitchings
that it has been worn down from use
and abuse
if you cared to look close enough
then what i would show you
would not be a sham of a heart
i would rip myself open
and show you the real one
the one that breathes your name
the one that pumps desire
the one that truly beats and has been beaten
and god has it been beaten
if you asked me to
i would do that for you
but i have a feeling you will forget me quickly
much more quickly than it took you
to climb into bed with him
Mar 2, 2014
Mar 2, 2014 at 3:54 AM UTC
O'
sweet destiny
with nubile stitchings now made stronger
with substance
new ink is distance we've missed
together
your needle's eye
and your pins so much sharper
o'er pavement and briars
all surfaces, now taxed lighter
my hours with silence
my eyes pursue
and praise
the calmer echoes in darkness
yes, keep me
of age
at dewy midnight
i sing
that you may not wander
the shot best taken here,
light fills
where I stand this clearing
but there
& there
my eyes witness three hens
come here, come here,
hurry now
you his
there is time not for us to waste
I obey and bring myself
in a cautious, efficient
most effective pace
looking back to a moment,
we sit for hours watching while
our prey circles around us
there are pots nesting there like flies
but inside dampness raises our thoughts
the ones I hide
the ones you love
puling off my tongue
twisting
with a new border and the words
traced over
original art
sold below markets
and places you misplaced that misplace your value
a tiny whisper here
and a smaller sort of incantation there
but here
here is to
warm nights and the cold days
that pursue
and with a monster there
the storm brewed and you've not prepared your stomach
so call and call
raise hell as I
drown myself
Aug 14, 2016
Aug 14, 2016 at 2:32 PM UTC
Roth was a great lover of music
Old-timely big band show times that evoked memories in living rooms across white America
Provoking melancholia for what was assumed lost.
He was a master of writing technicalities
Knew the stitchings in a pair of men's brown leather driving gloves
Like they were poetic metre
Knew the nervy velocity attended to the beating of a heart through a stethoscope .
He wrote more novels that can be read in most lifetimes
As he had five different versions of himself to think through.
He wrote half a novel in the voice of an actual ex- lover
He was not particularly good at writing women.
He was unsurprisingly/surprisingly good at writing about the realities of race.
He often cared little for reality
but could tautly pierce at the authenticity to be found
in "social realism."
He wrote standing up
Cried that novel was dead when really he was dying
He was both acutely aware and ignorant of this
He will be buried outside of Newark, presumably.
His career trajectory is unique in American letters in that it crystallized the vogue for American letters, ****** up the body, peaked and troughs with death, surveyed the end of American Innocence over four decades and closed at a summer camp.
His themes, in that order : Heartache, *** Motherlove, Therapy, Body Horror, Satire, Egomania, , father hunger, Death, the state of the nation, regret, race, life inside the academy,fascist media darlings, liberal terrorists destroying their family narratives,Death again, old *** absolute suicide in words, adolescence.
May 27, 2018
May 27, 2018 at 7:45 AM UTC
I am made of
all the people
I've encountered
and all the things
I have experienced.
inside, I hold the laughter
of my friends,
the arguments with my parents,
the chatter of young children
and the warmth of kind strangers.
inside, there are stitchings
from cracked hearts,
bitter words
from heated arguments,
music that gets me through
and emotions I cannot convey.
I am made of all these people
and moments.
Sep 21, 2023
Sep 21, 2023 at 5:23 PM UTC
Lawrence Hall HSG
[email protected]
The Baptism of Valaria Elizabeth
At the Altar
The young couple presented their first-born
Valaria Elizabeth, wrapped in a silvery gown
A happy child at play in the holy Jordan
At the Altar
Valaria Elizabeth, delightful in herself
Was glorious in white with many colors trimmed
And skillful stitchings as befit a queen
At the Altar
Someone asked Valaria’s dear mother
Did you craft this gown with love and thread?
“No, I bought it just yesterday,” she sweetly said
Welcome with love, Valaria Elizabeth!
Jun 3, 2024
Jun 3, 2024 at 12:58 PM UTC