this patchwork person trying to pretend
that the old ways have no hold on him
but knowing it's a lie
patchwork skin stretched thin across aching bones
and the skin aches, itches, begs to be parted
and to release the blood, and the endorphins and pain
these lungs that ache for the smoke
that is only truly pleasing from ten to two
these veins that crave for any chemical solution to this fucked up state
this patchwork person, has never been too well stitched together
and every night the stitches loosen just a bit more
but somehow still a recognizable and coherent whole
just more moody bitching
from yet another person covering up the flaws
with patches and temporary solutions.