Upon my mind, it itches.
Pangs of unwanted desire lay siege upon my soul.
I crave for the unfulfilling satisfaction, to quench the unquenchable flame.
With betrayed rhyme, forgotten reason, all I can feel is the itch, and I cannot stand against it’s gravity.
Lost to the hammer of repetition, I pursue my habitual self-destruction.
My mind forgotten, I drive with uncounted cost at the moment’s purpose.
And I scratch.
Again, and again.
I bleed, I forget, I scar.
And still, it itches.