Flake Off, Quagmire

Needles pierced through my skin 

Attached to the machine

Entering the layers perhaps 1/16" of an inch

At approximately 10-15 needle drops per second

Fast enough to avoid puncturing my skin 

And causing bleeding 

And yet slow enough to avoid tearing it

It bled and wept a little

But it was a uniquely personal experience

They often ask if it's sore; if the pain is unspeakable 

That somehow got me thinking once - no, a few times

That if I'd cut myself, will I bleed black?

Like the ink used for my tattoos

But I don't blame them for asking such a question 

Fooled by horror stories, they're bound to think that it's excruciating 

Often I'd like to tell them that my body can take almost anything 

A cut, a burn, 10 tattoos, and counting 

My body can withstand different amounts of pain

No need for drugs that can thin the blood

No need for skin-numbing creams

Because it is in the mind that I control the sensation 

It is my mental strength that I can always hinge upon

But no matter how strong my mind is

Sometimes my heart fails 

Every time it got fooled, played and hurt

Only time can tell how long I'd have to heal the pain

Unlike the healing process of my tattoos  

It was never quite manageable

An open wound still

I don't know how a healed heart feels like

But... Flake off, Quagmire

-PRK-

Diabolus

I tried to picture how that's possible
Tried to equate with that parable
I told myself it'll be implausible
That massacre in my head is just horrible

It's just too nauseous to put my finger on it
It's too malicious to put my feelings to it
He's been feeling exquisite with his fingers in it
Quite an exhibit though if the board was on it

But the walls were up, the thorns were out
Her voice was gone, something to live without
Slowly she started to bleed down the walkabout
She was plainly nothing but a forged devout

For the tingle she had to soothe was that of a saint
A saint to the public who triggered off the pain
In the drape, he was a diety who appeared so plain
Hadn't it been his crusty coat, he'd melt in the rain

But the story goes as the artiste shows
How the stanzas grow with its tingling claws
That the truth, now and then is in front of you
It's a matter of time for it to breed in you

For the one you anticipate isn't the one you need
When the one you abominate lifts you off your greed
As memory itself is merely a game
A game of trusting your inner tame

-PRK-