Pick It

You can't pick your
life or crimes.
Somehow they are
ingrained from the
day we are born.
They just are.
We'll say or do
lots
and there is
little control
in our
Deoxyribonucleic
acid.
You can't pick your
pleasure or pain:
not an option
in an Earthly world.
They're endured,
occasionally enjoyed.
Once in awhile,
the chef,
also known as God,
will come out and ask
your opinion,
but mostly he just wants you
to chew with your mouth closed.
He (capital H) has
an image to uphold.
I turned 30 on June 25, 2008
and throughout my
youth and teens,
I was told not to pick at scabs
or pimples.
They won't heal properly if you do.
I never listened.
I have scars on each knee and
a few on my cheek.
I don't regret picking at them,
but I do feel nostalgic
in the mirror.
If you told me not to
pick that scab on my knee
at age 5,
I would obey you long enough
to run home,
close the door,
and see for myself.
I'm just as rebellious now,
only this time,
I'm in now hurry to prove you
right.
It will come. Or not.