Stitches

Who am I, really?

Puzzle pieces,

Sown together at the joints,

Nothing more

Nothing less.

Struggling to be more

But feeling like less,

The world tears

At my stitching,

Threatens to pull me

Apart at the seams.

But then,

Who will I be?

What will I be?

A pile of broken pieces,

Never to fit together again.

But then again,

Was I ever whole?

Was I ever me?

Suddenly,

It's there,

I see it,

The truth that I craved

For so long.

And yet...

And yet...

the knowledge is

Bitter,

Bitter and nothing else.

I was just

Puzzle pieces,

Sown together at the joints,

Nothing more

Nothing less.

Author's Note

I know it's a bit all-over-the-place, but I felt like that's how this type of poem should go, y'know, stream of consciousness and all that jazz... Anyways, what do you think I can do to improve it?