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,
hard,
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.
HG-2018
