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    poetry


    dots Submission Name: Stitch me updots
    --------------------------------------------------------





    Author: Linzi
    ASL Info:    24.f.wales
    Elite Ratio:    5.91 - 80/100/94
    Words: 273
    Class/Type: Poetry/Dark
    Total Views: 780
    Average Vote:    No vote yet.
    Bytes: 2037



    Description:
       Just to clarify a cot is a term for crib


    Make the font bigger!! Double Spacing Back to recent posts.

    dotsStitch me updots
    -------------------------------------------


    Stitch me up
    like the thread of my childhood
    in the patch-work quilt
    that shapes our lives.
    Four blunt corners…
    Four blank walls.

    An empty crib,
    echoing sobs and laughter
    barricading
    time
    and ghostly innocence.
    Demonic innocence,
    the story of death and the maiden babe.
    Cot death?
    Cot suicide!
    Cot crumbing from social forces,
    held together by police tape.

    Next is the school gates,
    black as the plague
    against grey skies.
    Framing a winter face,
    in the murky depths
    of the window.
    The world beyond
    my first life,
    my safe life.
    The world of me and you.

    That gap is when I lost you
    first.
    I shredded the quilt
    like a snake-skin.
    I out grew it,
    I out grew you.

    That was when,
    you drew your thread, then,
    from my web of words.
    The ink
    that painted
    white rabbits black,
    and wrung the clouds
    of wonderland.

    That flood…
    it turns sticky hands limp,
    and gushes
    through the gates
    in ecstasy.
    Leaks like rain
    through a drain pipe.
    A child’s tears when
    the sunshine came,
    but shall never come again.

    Now I am sitting
    in the waiting room,
    cooing through bars
    that contain you
    and your sounds
    of sobbing,
    laughter.
    A ghost in the darkness
    the face through the cot,
    my cot,
    your cot now.
    A cot guarded by police men,
    doctors,
    paramedics.
    Silence broken by sirens.

    I am drawing
    my thread
    from my ragdoll wrists,
    to stitch us back together.
    I must work
    our patchwork life …
    Mothers’ turn to babes.
    From womb to tomb,
    Or tomb to womb
    together
    we’ll escape.




    Submitted on 2013-01-11 15:29:02     Terms of Service / Copyright Rules
    Submissions: [ Previous ] [ Next ]

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    ||| Comments |||
      This was very touching. Cuts life a knife to the core with its bluntness. Makes me imagine the harmonious relationships between mother and child in her womb. How peaceful, innocent, and happy life is in there. And once the child is born, it is hard to keep this innocence for too long. Children grow so fast and shed that skin of child-like wonder and love. Their skin hardens through experiences, peer pressure, school systems, every day life and work. And this magical relationship once held so dear by two is no more over time and space. But the child ever wonders, when inebriated, if it is possible to return, to stitch it all back together.

    It is very tragic when people take each other for granted. This poem helps us realize we should make amends before it is too late, and better yet develop a relationship that always grows and flourishes so that one needs not make amends. Thank you so much for this. This will linger with me for ever.
    | Posted on 2015-02-02 00:00:00 | by wordsofmind | [ Reply to This ]
      I really enjoyed this. Brought back a lot of images from this movie :D http://youtu.be/oqk0qLZgxwQ
    | Posted on 2013-01-13 00:00:00 | by Paradox | [ Reply to This ]
      So much to like here, a story to piece together: dark overtones of sadness mingled with some hope perhaps.

    This is excellent:

    I am drawing
    my thread
    from my rag doll wrists,
    to stitch us back together

    and I like this especially well too:

    you drew your thread, then,
    from my web of words.
    The ink
    that painted
    white rabbits black,
    and wrung the clouds
    of wonderland.

    I don't understand this:

    and ghostly innocence.
    Demonic innocence,
    the story of death and the maiden babe.

    There's a fair bit of explanation going on that I'm not sure really adds to the piece, in that it has a powerful sense of meaning already with out some of those bits.

    much enjoyed. thanks.
    | Posted on 2013-01-13 00:00:00 | by timepet | [ Reply to This ]


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