When I get stressed, I pick at my skin. Here’s a small poem about that.

Sometimes, I have feelings inside that are resolved by cold, determined destruction.

The gentle intent of forcible displacement is tantamount to amorous seduction.

I won’t stop ’til you’re off and away from this place, I care not if there’s pain, blood or tears.

As I force you away from your friends you hold dear I release all my inner fears.

I destroy to fill holes but in my quest I make holes, and I’m sure that my wife finds it repulsive.

But, like a drug, I can’t stop. A release from my drop, calculated but often impulsive.

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