Stitching my split mind

together again.

Severed too long,

divided and unable

to stand against chaos,

the rabble,

the cutthroats.

Get out the needle,

repair the divide.


Grinning through split lips,

tasting the blood,

a moment of indecision

costs the initiative.

One punch lucky,

sometimes that’s all it takes,

smash the enemy once,


never let him recover.


Oh, I sat back

and whipped up

some pretty fancy excuses.

I told the world

that the life I had lived

had left me tattered

and shapeless.

I couldn’t help,

I couldn’t care,

I couldn’t care enough

to help me,

to help you

to do anything.


That clock keeps on ticking.

New clocks are made every day,

so Time must figure

that someone’s gonna be around

to tell it.

I could only hold back so much,

before I myself was crazy with fear.

Not fear of death,

but fear of running out of time.


I dig around for that needle;

not the old one that took me,

that tore me up,

but a new one,

fine and true.

Find some thread;

any color would do these days,

but black is best.

I conduct

a rapid body survey

and I’m a little surprised,

because even though I’m tore up,

ripped, slashed and damaged pretty bad;

there’s still a good bit of me here.

I can work with this.


I pick a small hole at first

and even though it takes

a little while to thread the needle;

soon, that hole is stitched up.

I’m suturing tears

fast as I can find them now.

I’ve never been a tailor,

but I picked up

a deft stitch or two

somewhere along the line.


The job is more that I can do

in one sitting.

it’ll take a while

to put me back together.

Might have to add a little patch

here or there,

but not as much sunlight

is shining through me now.


The stitches are broken

and a little jagged,

but I don’t think

we’re meant to stay seamless;

child like.

It’s too easy to fall apart

and some of us

weren’t put together very well,

or built from the strongest stuff

right from new.

That’s a tough time, right there.


I feel that I’m a little more

together, now.

I might be able

to make better use

of what time I’ve got left.

Sure, I’m a work in progress;

hell, I’m likely to be

stitched up like an old coat

by the time by number’s up,

but with any luck at all,

I’ll stay useful until then.


Time keeps getting away

and I’ll keep fixing the tears,

some old,

some new,

as I can.

Better off together, I figure,

than falling apart.





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