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The Surgeon
I pick at the problem,
pick down to the bone, then sad that I'm stopped no problems resolved. I struggle to get to the issues at hand as voices call to me from inside my head. I pick to get to them, to pull them out through these wounds I create, but then always the skull. Damn this formation that protects the brain from self-surgery to it by uneducated hands whose fingers are bloody from constant operation. © 2014 Nicholas Emeigh |
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Part of the group "Record-A-Poem," and part of the Playlist "The Poetry of Nicholas Emeigh" which includes 40+ other poems.
Notes: This poem was written on Tuesday, January 21, 2014. It's a confession to skin picking, otherwise known as Dermatillomania, which is defined as repetitive and compulsive picking of skin. I do it to my scalp. It took a lot of courage to write this. A lot.
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