Blemish

Some poems come on like a pimple.      
they get under your skin      
like something that doesn’t sit quite right      
that you need to get out, but can’t      
until it festers a bit.      
The deeper the trouble lies      
the longer this will take.  
Sometimes it must get ugly before      
it leaves you be.      
       
All your cover-up and embellishment      
can't hide the fact      
that you have a problem to face.      
What's your intention, to make it pretty      
or just pretend there’s nothing there?      
It’s red for a reason.      
       
At times it even seems all creation      
is welled up inside you      
aching to burst out,      
but try to push it out too soon      
while the root of its rebellion still remains      
and it will just return, demanding consideration.      
There's still a seed to this dilemma      
you've not discovered      
or else it would be out by now.      
       
Stare straight on into the ugliness.      
Averting your eyes won't hide it      
or help you in your task.      
Ignoring it won’t abolish it.      
If you're going to get this out      
you have to do it right.      
Pay full attention to this task.      
Just picking at it makes it worse.      
       
Only when your conscience is cleared      
Only when it's all expelled, expunged      
can you rest right      
can your soul lay smooth, unblemished      
like a bed stretched tight with clean linen.      
Only then can you say,      
unsightly though it is:      
“This came from me      
this shining pearl of my wretched oyster.”      
       
When you are finally serious, set aside some time.      
Sharpen a pencil to a pin-prick point      
take a good hard look at yourself      
and let that wicked little poem      
spew upon the paper.