Infected Poem by Hyde

Man O’ Man, did I do it this time.
My nerves are going wacko.
First they were numb, now they tingle, soon they’ll sear with pain.
I told myself keep going, but why didn’t I just stop?
I’m shaking uncontrollably, and my eyes are swelled with tears.
My wrists, they ache so very much, but who am I to tell?
They’re pink and puffy, confined with yellow puss.
I try to squeeze it out, but its level of supply is endless.
Why?
Why did I do it?
I knew that later I would experience only grief.
But at the time it felt so nice, and the blood tasted so warm against my skin.
But every upside has its downside.
I’ll tough it out, don’t worry.
For sooner or later the torture will subside.
A purple scar will form, and I’ll forget the pain.
Then one day, my loneliness will transpire.
I’ll exercise my blade, to bring me warmth once again.
And the cycle will resume.