I scratch at it The pain only grows more but how? Why? The wound begins to open It spreads from the nothing, I have in my chest I continue to scratch at it, even against the wishes of others I fear that this wound will do me in I plead with doctors, to sow it up I ask the scientists to preform tests, to fix it I pray to gods and the universe, to calm the itch But all reply with a solemn sorry, and a pat on the head Now I begin to ask myself How can I stop scratching at the wound that comes from nothing in my chest? I have tried it all Love Hope Travel Peace Violence Rage Sleep Everything Maybe it is not my chest that itches? Maybe it is not my chest that has the wound? Maybe it is not my chest that has nothing? Maybe it's my hands that itch that have wounds that produce nothing I don't know Maybe.
I came up with this on the spot because my chest actually itched and I thought of writing this poem. Any comments appreciated :)