The Itch.

The Itch. 

My mind is in a state of itch,

I try to put my hand inside the flesh and

Locate where it is

But my neurons are positionally in a glitch.

Where is this bloody itch?

There’s a verbose wall in my brain -

Which I try so hard to break

But each time I try 

The wall fluidly shapeshifts into a mental block.

My walnut has definitely gone stale, 

Flaccid and malfunctioning.

Because when I do find the itch,

I scratch the cheeks of my frontal lobe

Then the itch stops itching 

And that’s when I know...

Something’s not working.

I provoke it.

I tantalise it.

I make my nerves get down on their knees,

Begging to the itch;

To kickstart my senses into working.

But after one single scratch-

It stops.

I don’t want it to stop.

The itch. 

Brainello, my dear stars!

(brain + hello, isn't it so yellow?)

You know how your brain just won't shut up sometimes?

Yeah.

That's my brain.

ALL. THE. TIME.

It's so exhausting. It's like an entirely different world occupying the fleshy valleys of my brain.

Moreover, this poem is interpretational. I believe some works deserve a partnership between both the writer and the reader. I merely provide the itch. You decide where it lives.

Have fun. That is... whether your brain will let you.

To me, the itch makes one scratch the very same spot until the opening widens, blood oozes out, and suddenly the portal is more fluid than flesh.

The fluidity of this itch is bloody, soupy, and obsessive. It makes me want to quite literally gouge my eyes out, take my brain out, hold it in both hands, and scream,

"JUST SHUT UP, FOR THE LOVE OF AT LEAST BEHAVING NORMALLY."

It never does.

Perhaps yours doesn't either.

Until then,

With neuronically fluid affection,

XOXO,

MaryTheLamp 🧚‍♀️