OCD: The End of Me
I pick and scratch and stretch
Mutilate
Infect
Bleed
It drives me, separate
From relief
Akin to hunger.
Manual breathing
Counting
The minutes
The bites
The steps
Call it a quirk
I name it demand.
Addiction
What is an addict…
There is no powder
Or liquid
But still I feel ants under my skin
Until the ritual is complete.
Compulsion is one thing
Obsession another
But when the two meet,
The horseman ride
And I don’t know if the end will come.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
