You asked me (straight)
to write a rhyme
about an itch I could not scratch.
I told you (straight)
I spent no time
writing of such things;
only feelings of love,
or hate.

Though inside my mind I have an itch
which signs its name as ‘dark’.
It tells me I stink (I scratch)
wrong things to think (I scratch)
leaves no visible mark as I scratch
and as I stretch and reach for it, it moves,
dangling love in my face
and laughs loudly at my fate.

To sit surrounded

To sit surrounded
by organised words
which can softly fall
onto clean, snow-like
silent lands
or crash and cry
as seagulls in the sky,
to sit surrounded
is my way out
from all sad things
and from whatever
is all about.