That's what they call it when 
you can't stop picking at your skin
Peeling layer by layer until the crimson shines through
Crimson, the color of kings
Bleeding through my fingers to remind me I'm a man
It leaves scars, but not before I get that speck
of dirt, dried blood or dissent.

It started young.
My old man bit his nails
so monkey see monkey do
innocent enough
I watched him as he drove
stressed and scared
I couldn't wait to turn in to him.

I'm older now.
I can't get the dirt out from under my skin
I dig and I dig and I dig and I dig
and I pick and I pull and I prod and I panic
just like my old man
but with a little more static.
yesterdays scars are still there,
If I make more today 
they'll hide beneath the red

Therapy helps.
I've learned it's not just a habit,
something broke inside me.
My dad spent all that time biting his nails,
and building his own world 
he forgot about his child.
All alone in the backseat,
Always watching.
you tend to notice details,
when no one notices you. 
I like it billy. I think you could are capable of more excitement with your meter and Sonics, but you got a point across. I do feel there was opportunity for you to play around with the form a bit more to really get that scab-scar imagery working on all cylinders.
This does what it set out to do, and has a clear beginning and end, so kudos to you on that!

I like it. And I like the parallels between picking at your skin and picking through your past for reason and/or understanding. 
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