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Stitched
August 26, 2009
Patches cover my scares.
Emotions sealed like jars.
Different pieces sewn together.
So high, lighter than a feather.
Within I am not that tough.
My actions are never enough.
I’m not real...
No one can hear me squeal...
Insides are made of cotton.
Dejected and forgotten.
Ribbon keeping me from falling apart.
A mere possession of material art.
My smile is made of tainted thread.
In life I am not living, I’m dead.
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