Poems From The Heart

My Mind

Stitching pages of my mind I have to get this right.

One misplaced note and my finger pricks, I become a bloody sight.

There is but one correct path and the stitches keep me on course.

With each passing page I blur, nothing matters but the course.

In and out, and up and down. My fingers make quick haste.

I do not worry about the sound. I shall not be disgraced.

There is some phantom ringing as the stitches flow madly out,

Something in me's screaming as I cast my stitches down.

The force forever pushing harder, edging my hands to move.

With bloody hands I press on, it seems I've something left to prove.

Stitching, stitching, stitching, with a never ending thread.

When all is said and done, for how many stitches will I have bled?

I won't remember, I did not count, that was not required.

With broken dreams I'll weep, finally allowed to be tired.

The stitches will be for naught and my memories made less

All the tearing out and fixing left a bitter, broken mess.

Still the stitching went, even as my thoughts screamed out.

they lay in some rancorous pile, peering at me as I pout.

The stitching wasn't enough to kill them off just to stop their building

Now my mind is tired, all the thoughts and stitches are slipping.

My mind was not allowed to be, consumed by stitching, stitching me.

But I care no longer for my thoughts I want to rest, to be.

That's how they do it, they consume you utterly.

With constant stitching, there's no time left to scream.