seems words got the better of me; all day long i scratch my mind-itch

with what i'll say then. in pencil, perhaps. or with a quill and ink.

but i become confused with what i think you whispered and i look

like the fool i am. i wish for time to be mine but it plays with me and

every word i see, hurts. i nurse and lick these wounds and they glow

and i am proud. but come night, my eye is blind again. and all i can feel

is the scratching in my neck and the fear of what i'll feel or find.