I am a patchwork of other people's things,
Stitched and strained by other people's strings,
Threaded by pricks and pins of untold affairs,
Cut by the agony and glee of past cares.

Hidden in the darkness of future years,
My next secret patch or stitch ghostly leers.
The next needle to scar my fabric rises,
Diving toward my skin, in my blood baptizes.
It leaves unchanged, its point unfaltered,
Bound with its cord, my mind 'ever altered.

Of other people's things I am a mess
Mind clouded by feelings of possessiveness
Beholden to others, never myself,
I feel as a patchwork puppet on a shelf.


Wrote another sonnet XD