It's time again for your inspection, Time to make some minor corrections; Squeezing out each new infection Eliminating imperfections.
It's not cathartic -it's not bold To just sit back and lose your hold and let this lunacy unfold unendorsed but uncontrolled
And YES! You really had a go; the flakes of flesh did fall like snow, ten jagged daggers, dripping, soak In a red and ragged afterglow.
And then just when you think you know it's over and you've stemmed the flow a tiny tumour starts to grow and it's time again to face your foe.
So the bell tolls and the round begins, this time it's not about who wins the wide mouthed open sore still grins forgiving you for all your sins.
And when you stopped your childish games the mirror did burst into flames and burned, and now that remains are tatters, ashes and bloodstains.
I suffer from eczema. It's pretty bad. Not the most dramatic or **** of conditions, but it can be the bane on my life. In this poem I try and go some way to describe the internal battle between the corporeal desire to scratch and the conscious part of me that knows I'll regret it later.