She sits there and scratches and scratches some more,
She’s clinging to hope til it’s almost red-raw,
Something’s under her skin and it’s itching away,
It’s burning, it’s yearning and it’s here to stay.
It won’t leave her alone, it keeps grabbing at her,
She can’t keep it away, it’s the feeling, the lure
The feeling of desperation to go back for more,
It’s got her into skin, right down to her core.
It gets under her nails, forever ingrained,
Etched as a sign to all she’s self-maimed,
The desperation, the hope, the frustration each day,
This scratchcard’s ‘the one’, she’s addicted to ‘play’…
By Carol Cameleon
The inspiration for this poem came after seeing a lady sitting outside a cafe, the look of desperation on her face as she worked her way through a handful of scratchcards she had on the table in front of her. It was a balance of probabilities that she would have a winning ticket – which she did. She popped into the shop next door to the cafe to get another, leaving her young child slumbering in the pushchair that was clearly too small for it. This is not a poem where I’m judging her… it’s a poem about making your own luck. You see, as much as I know about maths (which is not alot!), I do know that if you do enough of these things, you’re likely to win ‘something’ eventually… until your luck runs out and then it really gets under your skin…
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