The Insane Ramblings of a Disturbed Mind

There is an insect in my brain,
A beetle
Tunneling deep,
Never sleeping, always
Creeping, keeping careful to its path
Toward the core of my existence.
This monster
Brings an itch that won’t bear scratching.
I feel there’s something hatching in my
Skull, into the void and into the null, the pull
Of distraction, not a fraction but the
Whole of my attention. Have I mentioned the
Itch? Son of a bitch! This
Itch won’t go away! And the insect
Keeps on crawling, mauling
My subconscious with the spectre of its progress.
The cold, staccatto beat of its spiny,
Spindly feet echoes through the caverns of my
Sentience. But
It is not the sound I dread; it is the
Silence
In my head that promises oblivion, that
Threatens with vermilion eyes, that
Whispers of decay in words I cannot say,
Will not repeat. What is death but sweet retreat from
This creature’s perseverance?
And on it plods. Oh, God!
This
Itch…