Beneath the skin, where troubles start,
Dermatitis paints its art,
Red and swollen, itching deep,
A restless tide that steals your sleep.
Atopic tales, in childhood spun,
With genes from parents passed as one,
Dry and cracked, the skin does flare,
A chronic weight some souls must bear.
Contact made with irritants bold,
Or allergens in stories told,
A touch, a brush, a fleeting glance,
Brings forth a rash with burning dance.
Seborrheic scales on scalp and brow,
Oil-rich lands, they settle now,
Flakes like snow, but not so sweet,
Dandruff clings, a stubborn feat.
Nummular spots, like coins they lay,
Round and rough, they mark their stay,
On arms and legs, a painful sight,
A battleground of skin's own fight.
Stasis stands with legs in woe,
Where blood does slow, the swelling grows,
A patchwork quilt of pain and sore,
Circulation’s toll, hard to ignore.
Yet hope exists in creams and care,
Avoiding triggers, healing there,
With patience, time, and mindful thought,
Relief can come, and peace be sought.
