So, I finally started writing again, and stumbled on this, oddly enough I really don't remember ever writing it, but its there, and it seemed to be fairly good.



The pages lay open, blank, and clean,
Waiting for one to write what one has seen,
Yearning for the unified singular perceptions,
Grasping for what makes this one man nation.

The pen is lifted, the mind begins to stir,
Past events, little memories, a poorly quilted blur,
Begging for repair, desiring loving mends,
Lifting the quilt, he shakes out the bends.

The needle, the pen, one and the same,
Stitch the patches, opening past pains,
Scribbling leaving a trail of blood crimson,
Regretting what in this life he's done.

The man doesn't stop, he knows he can't,
Each person, each soul, grows like a plant,
Reaching to touch a bit more light,
Hoping in the end to have done what's right.



Funny part is I don't particularly like the concept of quilting... Yet I suppose writing about something I dislike amplifies the feeling of this.