When cross,
I stitch.
An X marks
The spot of each
Negative emotion.
I confess all
My feelings
To aida cloth,
Making a map
Of all my misgivings.

Turn your anger
And angst into art.
Idle hands must
Be kept busy
To stay clear
Of kitchen knives
Or razor blades.
Take a needle
And thread instead.
This is therapy.

Some express
Their fury
In oil or acrylic.
Bold slashes
On canvas.
Others rage
With pounding
Drums or
The whine
Of electric guitars.

For myself is this
Lady-like occupation
Of soothing monotony.
This tradition of gentle
-Women repressed
By a patriarchal society.
We are all Penelope,
Finding solace
In rote actions
To create beauty.


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