I’m made of patchwork, different every square.

Shoddily made, seemingly sewn together without care.

These patches are records of My days, tailored by the power of My hand,

These unmatching fabrics and patterns of different colors represent Me without brand.

 

I’m made of patchwork, different every square.

I’ve snagged a thread of Me, there has been a Tear.

Hands grab My cloth, it’s the powers that be.

They have fabric and thread to create a new me,

I beg to be set free

These fabrics aren’t me

 

i once was made of patchwork, i’ve become uniformed and square.

Made with precision, clearly now sewn with perfect care.

i’ve become made in a factory, with no individuality,

Monochromatic textile, with no sign of me.