Sometimes,
late at night,
or early in the afternoon,
Sometimes in the morning
and sometimes during noon,
I get this itch on the grooves of my palm.
Then inner turmoil becomes instant calm,
Only if I fit a pen between my thumb,
and index finger,
And then that itch will move and tither,
and far away from my hand it'll slither
It'll work its' sneaky way inside my brain,
And halt to stop along the way,
To push my feelings, and my pain,
my insecurities, my fears, all drained,
and pulsing out through that very pen,
the itch made me hold once again.
And I'll bleed, and bleed and bleed,
until there's no more use for ink
And the minute that the ink runs out,
the itch disappears; without a sound!
When will it be back? Who knows?
Meanwhile, my breath returns,
The itch now scratched and my mind relieved,
My whole life was scribbled on a sheet.
And through that sheet my feelings sprout,
until that itch comes back around.
