Wednesday, November 19, 2008

old haunts

A scab that I pick at constantly.  Almost healed, to the point of falling off on its own, and I dig my tiny nails into pink skin causing tiny droplets to form.  It seems to bleed for days.  

Days upon days of whirling thoughts, old pain and questions of why.  

As quickly as the wound opens, it begins to close.  
Slowly, slowly slowly. 
I cut my nails and become myself.  
Slowly, slowly, slowly.  

Until my nails grow out, I become a child for an instant, and the scab drops to the floor.



Stephen J. said...

I like your poem.

Lindsay Dee said...

Thanks buddy.

It wasn't hard to tell I was in a reflecting mood eh? Haha.