Why It Itch's Poem by James McLain

It is clean, it knows it is, it's
still the waking nightmare
of they the others when all
they do is yell, it makes it
shake even your eyes itch.
My legs, I dig at nothing, it
is not normal to excuse as
to there judgements of hell.
My face is Solomon in it's
mirror, please keep it away.
Still it in they of you inside of
some lidless eyes, yes you do.
Your judgements full and in it's
demons run around inside your
head so you make them mime
you then teach me, it is to blind.
My hair, even it itch's from you.