The Sin of Scratching, #52

Since a call serves no purpose,
meaning it is not your voice
taunting me, and nothing said
would be equal to the time
torn away by passing days,
feeding this psoriasis,
sinking my nails into

skin. What am I still scratching?
My life falls apart in great
towers of flake, left aside,
wasted and spun down the drain,
torn to shreds like grated cheese
felled onto scorching pizza,
sprinkled onto all I eat.

Sure, I have what’s left, pieces
melded into some seemly
tender and evolved ego,
what people call sensitive.
Talk to me, you will believe
few people you’ve met could be
so silly, so serene. Ask

salesmen what they recall
of people who’ve bought. Guess what
they’ll say, nothing, just enough
until they close the sale.
That’s what you get in my shake,
feel in my gaze, no deep
synergy, just me lying.

Since I am coming clean, let’s
make this as clear as can be,
transparent right to the bone.
Where I went wrong is no new
tale, nothing unique or
fantastic, the story rest
simply on a belief, that

some choices are discarded,
most in fact, not worth telling.
Three in your life are enough,
wishes from a genii. Those
three, if you make them good ones
fill all the cracks and fissures,
strong carbon bonding. But choose

somewhat less than perfect and
meet these long days, incessant
thunder of a cell that knows
what face it expects to see.
Tell those memory cells, those
forced to immortality,
say you must live in conflict.

Face in the mirror, I still
scratch to still feel, to love.
Since a call serves no purpose.

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Author:

A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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