Scars

It's like a
desperate addict
hounding for
a required fix

It ejaculates with the
rushed urgency
of premature orgasm

Sounds like
shredding cat claws
and spills over
like intoxicating wine

The sensation
is unlike any
ecstasy induced high
imaginable

It's the way
a masochist masturbates
with razors and
moans with desire

Sexy and
laced with imbecility
like ripped fishnets
on eighteen-year-olds

As good as
watching the sun rise
and puffing the first drag of a cigarette
in the
early misty hours of dawn

It stings
like the delightful slap
of shooting whiskey
straight from the bottle

And it's
as visually stimulating
as the first view
of an artists
undiscovered masterpiece

But it's humiliating
and a guilty pleasure
just like Roberts
no-no love

I only use
nostalgia and ink
as imprinted tattoos
for yesterdays turmoil
nowadays

So everytime
I see the scars
of teenage adolescent enmity,
and past twisted lovers
disfigurements of passion,
I think of all these things
and more