Weaving through my fingers gently, the strings of my art move together to form yet another flower. I don’t know much about what I do, having taught myself through thoughtful trial and error. However, with the little that I do know, I create little pieces of art with the small fabric of a shirt sleeve as my canvas. Color after color, stitch after stitch, the art I work so diligently to create slowly forms something real. Tattoos are something I find to be a work of art when done with a purpose or meaning, and the work with my strings feels as if it were just the same if only for my selected fabric. Carefully pulling in and out I do my best to fit my work with my love for flowers and color. Roses in particular are something else entirely to create, winding petals and the different shades of orange red and pink. Leaves being simply formed in shades of green that sometimes just reach to yellow. 

I work with what means a lot to me, flowers and the beauty that they show and speak. I hope to one day learn the secretive language of the flowers only a few still understand. It would be then that I could truly understand the love in the red roses I embroider, so I can truly use them as a symbol of my love for my craft. One day I’ll start with my small yellow buttercups that I so adore, the child-like joy stored in the tiny carefree flowers. A showing of the joy that I wish to experience, and the undying fun and elation that I wish to store and show on the clothes I wear so often. 

Vines and twists, viridian turns are yet another thing I would love to see. I am yet unable to draw them in the way that I so hope, but when I can I shall decorate my clothes with their royal wild mess. Sapphire blooms appearing scarcely throughout, adding a hint of calm in the blue green storm I wish to portray. If not simply for the beauty I find in them, then to show the knots of thoughts stored inside my brain just waiting to be used in fruition. 

With my careful strings I work to create art that I can truly find worthy. Using the odd language of my mind to create new ideas, just to wind back up at the flowers I so adore. My head full of ideas, of lilies and buttercups and roses, with my hands unable to properly keep up. It slows me down, makes it hard to work, almost impossible to really grant the image I so wish to create. It’s hard to work with, my mind buzzing with thoughts and ideas I can only wish to make real. I still go at my steadfast pace, making what I do end up creating with the best of my talents growing better with each and every stitch or passing line of brightly colored threads.