Figured I may as well put myself out there. This is a poem, definitely has darker leanings...much as I try I have a hard time adding positive words into my poetry when I think about how I'm feeling currently. Tired is the overall feeling of this. Written about ten minutes before my jazz history class today with a bit of editing later.

Patching
it’s what I do
I make do
with bits and ends of scraps
- tattered, frayed, bright, burnt and all
with thin thread and invisible, bone needle
Stitch and sew
Cross-stitch
Do I even really know how to sew?
No
But I make do
Crooked, ill aligned, mismatched and my quilt appears
Effort of my flesh, my blood, my bone
it doesn’t look like much
Made from materials tainted and even in their [best] aspects
tarnished
Incomplete thoughts, weaving pictures, rants, lines and lines
of words
colors
broken bits of things
Those go nowhere at all
But it is a patched thing
It was never whole,
only half-way in its pieces.