A tyrannical itch
That is never satisfied
The skin, broken
Smudges of blood
The rugged epidermis
Swelling.

A need that isn't supposed to be there
A soul-crushing phantom
An obsession with the computer screen
For the likes, the applause
For significance.

Like a drug-induced falsity
False euphoria
The itch grows unbearable
But mind-numbingly pleasant.

Such is the nature of attention-seeking
And toxic social media.

An empty blank
Trapped in a limbo
Black and white

Perplexed within
A nameless, static mood
My mind grasps a contradiction

Nothing...

Why bother?

It can be longer or shorter.

It doesn't matter.

A poem is a mirror
Reflecting someone's heart.

And suddenly, the bed was made!
The windows, gleaming with cleanliness
The clothes hanged well
All in their proper places.

How I wonder how she does it
Keeping things in order as if it's magic
This finesse of orderliness
I cannot seem to mimic.

Our marriage is like that:
Between a pretty damsel and an ogre
She makes a home out of a house
It's hard to imitate her.

A jumble of words I cannot utter
For their incoherence
I consciously mumble to myself
Struggling to put into writing
The garbled mess of my mind:

Filled with images
Of discarded tires and umbrellas
Of sandwiches and old socks
Withered flowers I bought
For no one in particular
The street where I live
The unbearable sadness of
Losing a dime
My self-referential musings
Of time loops and black holes

All nonsense...

Reality is now this gooey
And icky, unrecognizable
Substance.