Sometimes I look at the last scratch and think this is no way to end,
and then I scratch, and scratch, and scratch again.
Sometimes I look and think this is the perfect way to end,
and then I scratch, and scratch, and scratch again.
Sometimes I look and I do end,
only to find myself scratching again.
And then I look at them.
I look at them, and think is this really who I am?
And I say of course not, because it isn’t, even though it is.
.
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Categories: A Few More Scratches
Tags: Identity, Meaning, Scratches, Writing
Speaking of which…
Two small fleas
Hitch a short ride
The dog shakes his tail
-iku
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furry metronome / you know they are friends / when the dog wags the man
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I scratch often too
But usually just my head
When I watch the news.
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close your eyes / sigh / dream of chasing rabbits and gnawing on bones
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