Always On The Mend.

My hair is disheveled.
My rib cage confines my very soul.
My eyes are blank slates of opinions unmade
And society swallows me whole.

My knees may buckle at any time.
I might forget to breathe.
My feet are clumsy savages,
My hearts pinned to my sleeve.

Still, I venture foolishly.
I feign to comprehend.
This world unravels rapidly,
It's always on the mend.

And who am I to claim whats right?
To sway a "sinner's" hand?
How can I judge or hold contempt,
when I just don't understand?