When something's itching at you
from somewhere deep inside you
and the need to know just what it is
is the need that just defied you.

It's there and I will find it
( I played Cluedo as a kid )

but
the pen that opens up the word for you to read
the mildly absurd,
is short of what is necessary

the well is almost dry
the nib is cracked and
I could cry

if tears would only form written words
I'd have formed a library of books..
but they don't
and I didn't

the itch is still there.