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Mar 2013
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 :)
Kyle madill Baker
Written by
Kyle madill Baker  28/Other
(28/Other)   
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