when i looked at the pin, the tiny little pin

it seemed so harmless, but on a whim

i decide to go for it and give it a try

and as i feel the sparks on my arm i don't even cry

it hurt but it wasn't bad

i liked it, and that fact made me sad

but i ignored it, i didn't really mind

so instead i just drew onto my arm a smile

as i look there now, there is no scar

not a singular trace of what i did to my arm

but instead i look to my right hand

in which lie tweezers, black and silver and simple yet grand

and so i go to my leg and pluck a hair

i wince, but go again, and again, until that patch is bare

i'm reminded of that addicting thumbtack

and i hate it, but can hardly hold back

five minutes later, i'm sat alone on my bed

arms spread out, staring upwards, eyes looking dead

and i realize that these tweezers are an obsession

a false hope, a distraction, an unhealthy addiction

but i feel so lost if i don't have them to hold

and i feel sometimes like they're the only way to cope

but as an idea sprouts through my brain

i open the laptop to the sound of the rain

and a new realization dawns onto me

that i have a love, not obsession, with poetry

tweezers are fun, they hurt, and i like it

that's an understatement: it hurts like a bitch

and poetry hurts just as much, but it releases pain too

it's healthy and creative and i love it, i do

i see now that i'd much rather see

the cursor move across the screen than the pin across me

i don't understand why it took me so long

to realize the difference between obsession and love