First stitch, second stitch, I close my wounds.

I conceal the layers of hurt.

Only my walls know my pain, for I do not wish to expose the cause.

My body is a quilt of a broken heart, a quilt of loss.


Third stitch, fourh stitch, I patch myself together.

Internally I am a disarray of randomly sewn colors.

Time is both kind and cruel, for it laughs that my patches are made of cloth, not stone.

I am composed of feeble material that holds me together.


Fifth stitch, sixth stitch, I am coming together.

Time has become kind and given me hope.

I am still afflicted, but no longer harshly effected.

I am still composed of patches, but now I am whole.

This poem is about: 


Additional Resources

Get AI Feedback on your poem

Interested in feedback on your poem? Try our AI Feedback tool.


If You Need Support

If you ever need help or support, we trust for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741