Cuticles

Do not you pluck at those cuticles

Which your nails bear at their edges,

For all they will do is bleed;

Sometimes endlessly, a deep pain

Shearing through the nerves of your fingers.

This excruciating pain, will at times

Remind you of all those times

When you have been snubbed,

Sneered at, made a laughing stock of

And you had to yet, endure that mortification,

For your emotions had been then bleeding,

Just like the fringes of your fingers shall,

If you were to pluck at those cuticles.

Do not you scrap of the eschar

Which you would bear, no matter how old

How deeply buried within heart,

Those bitter emotions might be, for,

They would bleed profusely, making

All of this remnant hurt streaming once again

Like adrenaline, through your system,

Reminding you of all of those moments

When you had been looked down upon,

A horrendous betrayal of all the loved ones,

Or those who you had supposed to be so,

All of those horrifying emotions

Will surge through you, flooding

The barriers of control, of an aloofness,

Of an indifference, drowning all of what

Has been left behind of

Your rational expectation to be unhurt.

Let those cuticles and eschars be

How they are, unattended,

Not being tended to, seemingly dead,

As they seem, let them stay that way, for,

Plucking at them, teasing them

Would wake those demons from hibernation

Which are at times, not meant to be faced,

But, to be put to sleep.