The Itch Poem by Tristan Palmer

The sound of scratching rings as paranoia festers
My skin becomes a burning red as the chewed-down fingernails dig deeper
But the inflicted pain is dulled by the echoing voices
Just as I believe I have calmed Them,
They return, hungrier..
I am beginning to run out of fuel for them to purge

My Innocence, Enthusiasm, and Vigor are constantly being churned and wrung into droplets—
Droplets that slowly run down the flushed cheeks of my demons as they drink

Why can I not utter the strength to conquer my past?
I try to run away, but I always get caught as my demons are too fast
Why do I continue to let my contemporary self be burdened?
Probably because my inane self continues to get lured in

How much longer can I bear feeling desolate?
I am beginning to simply believe it is my fate
How much more can my preyed vessel endure?
I don't think I will last much longer unless I can find a cure

As time continues to slowly tick
I cannot escape the constricting hands of the Sick
My once hopeful mind can no longer accomplish anything but languish
As I currently find myself picking at my withering body from anguish