Patchwork Heart

I call to the sunshine that dapples the trees,
that flickers and shudders with every breeze.
I ask for tomorrow, a wonder, a sign,
for some quiet token to say you're still mine.
I sing to the river, to its murky depths,
and ask why my heart isn't fully healed yet.

The scars, they don't cover, they don't go away.
They scream and they mumble, they inflict their pain.
Not friends but not traitors, they are what they are.
No, even the strongest can't stand without scars.

On chests and on fingers, on wrists and on hands,
the nostalgic wounds coldly wreak their demands.
You think you'll forget us? You think that you're free?
Well, try to be happy. We dare you. You'll see.
Yes, we'll let you smile. We might let you sing.
But when you're alone, we won't change a thing.

This life isn't perfect. Yes, I have my guilt.
My heart's made of patchwork, a pitiful quilt.
And every few moments, I wince and I pause
as I am reminded of my torture's cause.
But I am a human. To scream is to live.
At the end of the day, we all get what we give.