The Scab
Pick pick pick, till my nail finds an edge:
A sharp little corner, a lumpy, bumpy wedge.
Then pull, pull, pull (though it hurts quite a lot!)
And I lift off the scab from my favourite picking spot.
Ow, ow, ow, how I wish I’d left it be.
Then I wouldn’t have such a massive hole in my knee.
So I wait, wait, wait and within a day or two
My body works its magic and a scab has grown anew.
Don’t, don’t, don’t, no I won’t pick at it.
I’m reformed, I am finished – I truly picking quit!
But it’s lumpy and it’s bumpy and my fingers itch to touch –
Surely just a little pick can’t hurt too much…?
A sharp little corner, a lumpy, bumpy wedge.
Then pull, pull, pull (though it hurts quite a lot!)
And I lift off the scab from my favourite picking spot.
Ow, ow, ow, how I wish I’d left it be.
Then I wouldn’t have such a massive hole in my knee.
So I wait, wait, wait and within a day or two
My body works its magic and a scab has grown anew.
Don’t, don’t, don’t, no I won’t pick at it.
I’m reformed, I am finished – I truly picking quit!
But it’s lumpy and it’s bumpy and my fingers itch to touch –
Surely just a little pick can’t hurt too much…?
This poem is copyright (©) Fiona Bannatyne 2024
About the Writer
Fiona Bannatyne
Fiona wrangles children by day and words by night. Working as a teaching assistant, she sees first hand the sparks getting lit in young children by words and reading. She was once bitten by a bat, but sadly has yet to develop any superpowers.
