Picked them out one by one.
Each one was special;
Each one meant something new.
A new opportunity;
A new door opening.
Those one or two things
That make my quadruple digits special.
Blow it off, make a wish.
That simple,
As if I were throwing coins in a well.
Then it turned to greed,
And from greed to habit.
I just had to have it,
Well... Had to not have them.
I would black out and turn rabid
Ravishing those few special
Mutated skin cells,
Picking them like fruits of a harvest,
Wishing I didn't have to pick them anymore,
Until the field was bald,
And the crops were lost.
And there stood the portals of my vision,
Butt-naked allowing no protection,
From particles entering...
From ridiculous ridicule...
From a fiendish habit to grow...
I plucked them all until I was all that was left.
