10 June 2012
Now I'm not ususlly one for writing gory poetry, but I must stress, if you are easily disturbed by this sort of thing, please don't read on, as this is something that has ACTUALLY happened to me, when I was younger. Not an age rating but a mindfuck rating I guess?
From a sailing event, I took them home, At age Nine, unaware.
Thinking back, what a fucking cunt'd 've been So idiotic to leave them there.
A week passed and in my feet, Holes were emerging, They weren't discreet.
A few months past And there they were, Those bloody veruccas, My Allies to their Fuhrer.
Desperate, I picked At the loathesome scabs, But my nails'd broke, Before the veruccas had.
Frenzied, almost addicted, Age ten, I took pumice stone and tweezers, A war broke out then.
Their numbers kept growing, just picking Didn't work, I knew that to get rid of them, I'd have to make myself hurt.
Scrambling Age Eleven, After showers , every Sunday, I tweezed them with all my might.
Suddenly, I manged to prise, Back a tweezerful of Skin, Revealing Pink Flesh, a wound, and blood that filled it in.
Doubting my choice, I attacked the barstards again, Only to go wrong, Where I knew I shouldnt've gone
I had ripped in too far, I had tweezered too deep, A small white fleshy lump, Protruded from one of my feet.
Believing it to be the barstards' core I pulled with all my might, It came out slowly and painfully, And gave me a bad fright.
Dangling from those tweezers, was no verucca of mine Startled, age twelve, I knew this wasn't fine.
That little white ball, Was a ball that I took A tiny chunk of flesh, From my bleeding left foot.
Age fifteen I look back at that pain, And think of the scar it left, And the veruccas, I'd never want to battle Again.
Veruccas • Opuss № I