#patch
For the one who needs to hear it;
You won’t recover from being abandoned,
not the way they did,
picking themselves up from night to morning
like none of it stained their hands.
You’ll keep checking your phone,
constantly checking,
hoping they tried to reach out,
hoping your name still echoes somewhere in them.
But to them,
you never held importance,
just a wallet they could use
until the zipper broke.
No apologies will be given.
No soft explanation,
no closure wrapped neatly at your door.
They left silence instead.
Silence being the cruelest kind of answer.
So now you learn a soured truth;
the only hands that will pull you out of this
are your own.
The only closure you’ll ever hold
is the one you force yourself to swallow.
May 26
May 26, 2026 at 4:26 AM UTC
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.
Sep 15, 2021
Sep 15, 2021 at 11:39 AM UTC
you told me i was a priority
i guess you lied to me
Apr 24, 2020
Apr 24, 2020 at 8:38 PM UTC
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!
Apr 30, 2019
Apr 30, 2019 at 10:29 AM UTC
out
of the dark
further, further
pushing on still
through the street
in a patch
just to see you
and meet
the glorious sun
soak in the warmth
as the first light of day
drifts over us and I start to think
maybe this is home, here with you
in those shining pale rays, just us
and the problems of the world
seem so distant when we
can just sit here, looking
up at the sky, alone,
together, enjoying
ourselves and so
utterly at peace
and that is a life
that I think I
could get used to
Mar 1, 2019
Mar 1, 2019 at 6:23 PM UTC
an azure hue
presides over our bush patch
an azure hue
such an imposing shade of blue
brilliant the colour in dispatch
of its resplendence there's no match
an azure hue
Apr 11, 2018
Apr 11, 2018 at 8:44 PM UTC
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.
Feb 21, 2018
Feb 21, 2018 at 10:14 PM UTC
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
Mar 27, 2017
Mar 27, 2017 at 7:51 PM UTC
Beneath the suede feel and nappa leather
Beneath the Jordan that sells for some many dollars
Rests a weary foot covered in torn silk
A little hole here
A little patch there
Beneath the Italian suit and that da Vinci scarf
Beneath the bear fur coat and the cashmere wool
Rest a broken soul covered with a broken body
A little wear here
Some many tear there
Jan 22, 2017
Jan 22, 2017 at 7:58 AM UTC
Within your system
of abstract data I'm the
invariable
one; the broken semaphore
who yearns for an error-patch.
Oct 24, 2016
Oct 24, 2016 at 2:36 PM UTC
She knew she wasn't like the other pretty girls,
they had words for her uttered in silence not
formed into word other than those on scraps
of paper. For rumours have power not through
voices but images held like a prisoner in he head,
Disfigured were her traits, genetic abnormalities
most were told or as rumors spread. She held it
every year nearly identical such intricate design
that went into this pumpkin head, those of ill taste,
muttered words aloud is that your father as she
rested on her pumpkin patch.
She smiled with all she could, for her deformity
made the resemblance of a pumpkin similar but
for a difference of she had flowing hair. As years
past and the head seemed just slightly different
with each year that passed seemingly the same as before.
But this time the eyes were hollow and inside not seemingly
pungently orange but white and hollow.. this was scarier
as what became before... till a policemen wondered near.
Smelling a stench of not rotting fruit. but something more.
"Child what do you hold on this dark forbodig night,
**"Why my daddy sir, I wanted to show the world something
uglier than I, so I held him on hollow's eve to show the world
that there is something more ugly than me,**
"Ugly my child who pray tell would say such a thing,
**"Daddy did everyday, said I was a seed from the field
and seeds don't fall far from where they fell,**
In amazement he looked beneath where she sat pumpkins
from years gone by had rotted and new ones spouted in
there place but each a distorted look as each started to rot
on top other that had fell. beneath he saw what seemed to
be a palm of white holing on to seed a bag of something prey tell.
"What's in the bag sweetness,
"A bag of seeds, from where his hell sprouted and began,
"Each of these you see is a moment a memory of his life,
**"And I sit here with his head and then I place him their
to watch what I crush each formation o thought under foot,**
**"For each one that grows is a memory and I will crush them
all under my footing till nothing grows here till death is still,**
Child why would you do such a thing,
"Do you not know beauty is on the inside,
"I will show you beauty of what you speak,
Following cautiously from what is seen, he should have radioed
in. But she is but a child what can she do. leading him between the
long grass to a garden of illuminated beauty. looking bewildred
at what was and now seen.
"Through the pumpkin patch, that was my place of regret,
"So what is this place child,
"My garden of redemption,
"Redemtiooooooooooo.......,
And those where his last word as she spoke three words
"TRICK OR TREAT....
For he was the treat for the flowers to bloom.
Blood lilacs and roses of the night had a taste for certain
nourishment, and they only drank on each hollows eve...
She smiled as she sat on the pumpkin patch, that hand
of her fathers features just revealing enough for her to allure
the curious to not take her features as a needing for sorrow.
but more of a trick to treat that what thirsted out back..
Oct 1, 2016
Oct 1, 2016 at 6:24 PM UTC
Wilted flower, ageless in
A time of frailty, never wishing
For her glow to fade, but
Every flower wilts over time.
She was weak in sympathy
Seeing everyone though her
Outer shell was, of ill taste,
Souring there eyes.
So those of younger skin she
Spat upon in hated gestures,
Until she could not see beauty,
Only those having what had
Faded upon her over time.
She was a seamstress of cloth,
Fashion was in her eyes, beauty
For beauty now all was bland
As her image tainted, She was
Upon a plan.
She would take beauty from those
Unworthy souls, who abused the
Gift for it should be collected,
Harvested, so began her crime.
The first was a nose, cut off still
Breathing jagged edges ruined.
She slashed upon beauty as stillness
Settled in there eyes. Like a canvass
Now ruined, ugly in her sight,
Discarded in to the river the fishes
Feasting upon her crime.
She harvested, parts each dead
for moments but stillness brought
precision, each flawless gem, with
Precise loops each part fell in to place.
She only needed one more ,the lips
So delicate, so fragile. She carved
So many kisses from the bodies,
But never the correct, impatient
She became, enraged with failures.
Her moments of rage, became news.
"The patch work doll"
"The seamstress of beauty"
She liked this name for beauty
Was a puzzle that she stitched
Together to hide the ugly inside.
Then upon those fated moments,
"Excuse me do you know the"
Her mind forgot to listen, transfixed
Upon those ruby gems, Yes ill
Show you the way.
"Thank you mam"
Ill fated beauty, single breathes to
Take. These where her jewels of
Her crown as each most delicately
Removed, stored so not to break.
The patchwork was finished, **hideous
Monstrosity** of flesh dead, but she
Revelled upon her creation. Missing
The point that she was only faded inside.
She wore this mask, **the seamstress of
Beauty** now wore the blood of others
Upon her face, each was a life taken
For this moment in the mirror, she
Looked upon in happiness, in joy
Of others pain, but the moment faded.
All she saw was others, her beauty hidden
Upon the stiches of others face, she
Couldn't see herself only the faces of
Each life she did take. The lips moved
Spoken words upon this face, you want
This beauty take it cut it with the knife.
She cut upon this mask, deep cuts
Upon her own self, the mask fell
To the floor, spare parts of meat.
She cut around, bleeding down
Kissing the floor as it fell. Till she
Stood there, her skin, meat upon
The floor.
Those final moments the seamstress
Saw she was beautiful, that it was
Underneath that was what she had
Missed, so much beauty spilled for
What, as she ran screaming towards
The window.
Like a mirror shattering shards
Showing her a reflection of the beauty
She had become, she was the seamstress
Of many faces but know only one
Face hits upon the unforgiving ground.
Feb 1, 2015
Feb 1, 2015 at 5:33 PM UTC
I am indifferent to your pain
I cannot feel the hurt the rage or blame
The anger I don't handle well
Are you in hell? I cannot tell
I see you lie there on the ground
My only interest is the round, the caliber, or the speed of car that hit you. Its Vehicular. Was it mine? Approach and angle. Incident report. I am indifferent to thought outside of that that makes me who I am. I don't hate you. I'm the man
who said, " I love you" and "We're friends" and things that tore your mind to shreds
I only know you're mad as hell. I didn't know. I couldn't tell.
How could I know? I only said
those words to get you into bed.
Jan 22, 2015
Jan 22, 2015 at 6:17 PM UTC
tremors from the albuterol
two puffs was enough
to loosen my chest
after my fourth maverick
cheap smokes
but not cheap enough
to fill you full of fiber glass
and cat **** chemicals
my lungs call me a hypocrite
can't help but agree
i'll get one of those digital cigs
to avoid the nightmare patch
Jan 7, 2015
Jan 7, 2015 at 2:20 PM UTC
So I scuttled up, until I found a voice like Japan, I read him his rights, turned out the lights, and laid right back on the sand. They said, "Sir, he was much of a father to me, but we were labeled his kin, right in our family tree." "Oh wow", I said, with a gentle, smooth voice, he went missing last August, but now he wants back you boys?" "Oh yes, he sure is a feral man. We think that's why he dried up and flew to Japan." Right then, the two of them went silent just like two second story men, so I inquired, "What happened then?" "From Monday thru Sunday he took to prayer from the bible, and on every other weeknight he watched Japan's Top Model. He threw gallant parties to a harem of wives, he read each of their palms, and looked in their eyes; some time later, when everyone was about to leave, he'd turn on Happy End and start a wild **** By this time I was tired, the sun began to set, I grew tired of my beach patch and yearned for my bed. Although soporific, I tried to be polite, I said, "Let's finish this conversation some other time." "Of course!", they said, "We're off to bed. We'll see that you'll do the same." Then they stood up quick, and reached down and picked up my chains. The beach we laid on was black top, asphalt and tar, the bed I craved was behind a row of private bars. The two of them, them both, were children of mine, because my memory is shot, this might've been their millionth time. i got locked up in a county that's dry as a beach, like Elizabethtown, Kentucky, where I was raised till 13. No one, not even the warden, knows really why I'm here, even some man from Cell Block Five, asked me last Sunday, why was I here. My beach perhaps, it's love at last, concrete, gravel, and stone- a 6' x 10' room with bars and a porcelain throne. It's mine I cry, each night I die, with glee, with smile, with rite. But it makes the other guys run at me, and try to start random fights. I don't remember the boat I took, but I remember the tour, going to Japan at Epcot Center since I'd never gone before.
May 11, 2014
May 11, 2014 at 3:30 AM UTC
Sleep.
Sleep child,
til' the light overpowers the darkness inside,
where I secretly cried.
I secretly tried,
but no one would guess,
and I never put my cards face up.
It's only ketchup.
Used to patch up,
the cut and scratch ups,
caused by the dull
of my pencil,
and my soul.
I fell,
but I dragged myself up again,
back into my daily skin,
and I'm that burden.
That one whose not fully there,
told by everyone, "you just don't care",
with a random shudder scare.
The words I despise you all think,
even the shrink,
and it drowns me to the sink.
I'm that disaster,
everyone's after,
maniacal laughter.
"Am I losing my mind?"
"Is this mind really mine?"
"Would dying be fine?"
I'm not so refined :)
I can see the things in perfect imagery,
things I don't want to see,
always worried everyone hates me.
I can't see,
I'm not me,
I'm not even a somebody.
Maybe inside is some other ghost,
I'm the host,
at my death let's just have a toast.
Til' death do we part,
take it as a new start,
buy the roses to my grave from walmart.
I didn't think I mattered anyways,
sleeping through these pass-me-by days,
my mind playing simon says.
I always secretly try,
but I am still I,
and now simon says ".....goodbye."
Feb 15, 2014
Feb 15, 2014 at 9:32 PM UTC