Itch

These days, I do not have the patience to read
Or watch or breathe or be.
There is an itch to understand and be understood
But I can’t write anymore or talk anymore or breathe anymore,
Atleast not on my terms.
For inspiration, I look at the tiny ants that crawl all over my desk, my legs and thighs
Honestly, at this point I don’t even mind their bite.
Flowers are pink and the rain has been pouring endlessly
June onwards it is supposed to be the season of rain
My ma tells me everything is a phase, even this so called pain.
Day after day, I feel more caged in my windows and ribs.
An existence that over months just cribs.
Tiny birds fly in flocks in the endless blue
I don’t see bombs but arrows criss cross the horizon, is this a lie or the truth?
I sit with the bowl of my mind in my hands, knees close to my chin
My fingers remain the same, even if I lose to gain and become thin.
People float like burning money on a candle
A flame that hurts, a flame that blames for all the wrongs that one can handle.
This rhyme is sickening, I don’t want to eat.
I look at ants collect morsels of insects from beneath my seat.
There are too many mosquitoes, I tell ma
An itch on my skin that turns red and red and red
Over and over again.
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~insight07
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