Scratches

Minor pleasures we gain from

Minor inflictions

Not deep purple bruises

Or gushing wounds

Mere scratches

That you mayn't even notice

Until the lime you cut

For a sambol

Stings

Minor inflictions, we tell ourselves

Don't matter

Won't leave a scar

Guilty pleasures, these are

We wouldn't even admit

But it's true, isn't

Guilty of it, I am

Just as you are

Look at us,

Hurting each other

For some fleeting pleasure

Termites

You'll find yourself

One day being thankful

Or even pleased of

The life carved for yourself 

Out of wood left for the

Termites

It's all good,

You'll be telling

Yourself 

It's all good.