I found myself at another shop, a ritual of mine,
pondering its wares, as if I were actually interested.
The whole song-and-dance was routine by now.
I finally got to the section I was wanting,
and the small bin sat there, waiting for me.
The mass of colors and styles and shapes and sizes
were making my selection difficult;
they all had such different appeals to them,
such different ways others would judge them,
judge me for wearing them.
After finding something to my liking,
I slipped it inside my jacket pocket,
already adorn with many of its brothers and sisters,
coming from several
different locations,
different times,
different people.
I hurriedly left, ignoring the cashier’s bored “see ya next time.”
At the food court, I sat, meeting with my friends.
I sit, observe as they speak.
Much like the bin at the shop,
I look for something in them.
A hobby,
an interest,
an accent even,
just to call my own.
Finally, a joke is made, relating to a teacher,
and I got it.
I smiled to myself,
ready to incorporate
what I had stolen from my friend.

you told me i was a priority
i guess you lied to me

So what if the sky
won't let you walk away
with a patch of the blue sky.
Catch that slip through
the fingers close by
'a pair of butterflies'.
It does a matter whether
you say there is or there is none
truth is a piece of heaven is on earth!

We are all stitches in the cloth
                           of the universe,
each a moment holding
        the past & future together.

For without these
                   overlapping occasions
we would become frayed.
Undone not learning from one another.

But we are but one stitch among the
                    many colours that are
woven as far as the eye can see.
            patches that collected together.

A rip has appeared
The fabric torn
A new piece pit in place
Whole again

But sooner or later
It's more patch than not
The original
Long forgot

Then only thread
Patches of patches of such
Is it even fabric now?

People seem to think
Patches never fail
But it can't last forever

Some even try
To use patched patches
To fix another

But all fabric
Wears thin

You were a black patch in a pitch dark universe, only with a simple streak of blue
A silver lining all of you

I was light. Constantly trying to enter, without realizing that it won’t in any way broaden that delicate border

That a full ray has no correlation with it, and they most certainly don't blend in each other

It helps no one, heals nothing, amounts to just more vacuum -- empty, vacant spaces. Hollow and scary!

That colors cannot be mistaken for paints, and especially not when they're out in space