Scars on my arms faded to memories,
faint dirt paths overgrown
with vegetation. Sometimes
I want to carve some new ones,
but don't. Instead I drag
on cheap cigars, pixels,
caffeine and other
more socially acceptable forms
of masochism, like relationships
or political campaigns in the media.
Black under my nails
not from European graphite anymore;
no, just from $3.99 hair dye
and scratching my eyes out.
Haven't picked up a drawing pencil
in almost a year. The closest form
of art I've attempted is grabbing
a chunk of dry hair and hacking it away
with the fury of the insane.
Adrenaline palpitating my heart
not from standing on the lip
of a furious overpass; no,
just from staring at a blank
computer screen, trying to
block out the incessant white noise
of human interaction while
trying to get these words past
the barrier of my mind.
.