The Needle

Pin, pin, push it in
-to little holes beneath the skin
(that are) left to bleed beneath their touch
till the pain becomes much too much.
They just dig deeper, further down
till the pin begins to drown
and the seas inside, they rise and fall
to keep the secret over all.
 
 Not the heart, not the brain;
You're much too focused on the pain
of a truth-ful needle poking in
And busting lies beneath the skin.
 
Boils, blemishes;
they're both diminishes
that the needle seeks to find;
little, tiny, self-told lies.
 
It's not enough that the needle may be right;
so were leeches in their time.
It may be just that you're feeling the burn
(of truth) before you're in the urn. The final turn.
 
Hello Death, I loved your poison prick.


ISA