I pick and scratch and stretch
Mutilate
Infect
Bleed
It drives me, separate
From relief
Akin to hunger.
Manual breathing
Counting
The minutes
The bites
The steps
Call it a quirk
I name it demand.
Addiction
What is an addict…
There is no powder
Or liquid
But still I feel ants under my skin
Until the ritual is complete.
Compulsion is one thing
Obsession another
But when the two meet,
The horseman ride
And I don’t know if the end will come.
-
Author:
Anna Wakey29 (
Offline) - Published: May 26th, 2026 09:35
- Comment from author about the poem: I was diagnosed with OCD a few years ago. I have struggled for a lot longer with other mental health issues, but I have no idea how to cope with this particular one. It has become steadily worse, and this poem explores the ever present tyranny of it.
- Category: Reflection
- Views: 5
Offline)
Comments2
Very nicely described and I believe that on a spectrum all have more or less. I count things continually but it does not usually get in the way but often helps not just the anxiety. Your last two lines are very nice giving it a dark feel
Thank you for your kind words! And I fully agree, mine started with some ticks that wouldn't have even appeared on the OCD radar but now it's really bad, but definitely everyone has it even just a little
You are most welcome Anna
A lot of people use the, 3-3-3 method to break the cycle.
Look around and name 3 things you can see, which can be anything at all. A lamp, a plant, the sky outside your window, for instance.
Listen up and name 3 things you can hear. A bird, the washing machine, distant traffic, e.g.
Move 3 parts of your body with intention. Wiggle your toes, roll your shoulders, gently move your head from side to side.
To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.