Scratch of this Pen

Things that I regret itch me on the inside

That soft under side of the flesh aches from a perpetual bother

Things said and actions passed

Just little nuances – gnats in my face

The worst part might be the fact that I’m the one to notice

An unnecessary addition, just a little too far

I push the subject over the edge and try desperately to pull it back up

But that catch is on a rope too long to see and my arms give out before it’s even worth it

I should just drop it, try again later

But if I knew what I was doing I wouldn’t be here writing

Somehow if I write, the mental bother ceases

That scratching on the inside becomes the scratching of this pen

I haven’t written in a while. Not like this, not with a mean

But something struck an old chord and I’ve picked it up again

Just like dancing without eyes, practice lyric without judgment

It’s inevitable that my mind will wander

It grows on fantasies and I don’t care to cut them down

It may be harmful but it keeps me occupied

Someday I’ll realize what I never knew and I’ll receive what I did not ask for