So many itches, it takes seven years to scratch.

That drive, that burn , that feeling inside, if you can describe it or not, isn't something you can hide. You know you've got something that you've contemplated on so hard your body has to abide? Appears you have an itch, you can't quite scratch, and if you do it burns you 'til you're dead dry. A few of them I can mention, some more than others with a quickness, would be as honorable mentions : A pool game where the 8 ball is your target, that burn you got from that intercourse that was a little rough on the carpet, when you go through the decision to have a child and ensure it's lifespan, that cast iron skillet with iron wool, obviously goddamn! Then there's the fever that could be legitimate that keeps you from work, or the fact that they give you two days and expect you to be perked up. A few others, lest I forget, dementia, lunacy, and being a heretic. Ah, but the rabbit hole is deeper! The itches come stronger, the scratches become fewer but sweeter! Death...not much to say about that one, life, well it's hard to scratch once you've got one, you go on (or don't). A book that you read, when you're the final chapter, responsibility for planning anything when it in turn becomes a disaster. Oh, a mess, oh I'm a mess, yes I insist, the itches that I can't scratch are predominant when I become distressed, but it's all in jest , because the reality is just fine : the itch is a synapse, controlled by your mind.