As I sit here and wonder,
Through an endless ponder,
I question each little itch.
Yet before I know it,
This grave that I sit in,
Is an itch: a dwelling of itches.
How to get out…
To rid these itches,
I must remove their stitches,
With the use of my pointer and thumb.
As time passes by,
Still I can’t see the sky,
Now stuck by a mountain of stitches.