Landscapes of the Mind - Poems

Scab

You're solid enough

until I pick, by accident ---

a crevice of worry I sink into, a hole

I dig from the inside out.

The creases in my forehead wrinkle,

petrified thought.

Substance flakes away,

a statement in red.

I have much less to say,

but when I snap back to reality

like an elastic band (the metal piece

bites my wrist),

gaze pulled downward,

assessing the damage 

I must admit; there is a sick

satisfaction, in picking an old wound

simply to watch it bleed ---

I'm far too polite to do worse.