itch

My body itches and
I write feverishly,
scratching at the paper,
a burning I cannot ignore;
a urge that must be satisfied.

Ink flows through my veins,
bleeding myself
to relieve this pressure.

Thoughts, images, words
they must be words!
Struggling to choose the right word.

My body fatigues.
I am weakened, but
writing.

I sweat profusely
trying to put these words together;
not a poem yet,
not until my heart
stops beating,
my shaking hand
scribbles the last
words, and
i die.

My body itches...