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Rated: 13+ · Poetry · Experience · #2082318
Bane of the itch.
Even eyelids are not immune when the
itch sets out to agitate.  So beware this
rigid provocateur, this hard bearer of
nitpick in skin, demon runner under
epidermis.  He be hooligan in wee
morning hours, a heel and sole
irritant tossing grit against
nerve and flesh and pore.
Arms, elbows, hands,
behind the knee or
ridge of shin--it
matters not.

He seems to wait
till beyond midnight
provoking pots of shit
called itch, spilling such
with disregard of when or
how the cause awaits.  And
to this cause the fingers rush
with nails as weaponry against
the foe, and sometimes sleep be
not defense, as autonomic actions
stir, and scars arise ere dreams end.

Nails rake the skin, but he just laughs,
then hides among the veins and tiny
passageways for blood, and holds
his middle finger high; a mocking
Mephistopheles.  As red arises
on the plain of thumb or thigh
or cheek, he travels with the
speed of blink, and spirits
once again with prick,
irking like a storm
of hooks those
Netherlands
of flesh.


36 Lines
Writer’s Cramp
4-25-16
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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/2082318