My Angry Itch

I cry and I scream and I bleed for a fix,
now huddling in sweat and filth and nightmare,
sobbing silently for a cure to my angry itch.

Now trembling and laughing in the jester's shade,
my home entertainment now hallucination in a padded cell,
making mockery of a world heavily pregnant with a bastard child,
father now long gone and left to raise his twisted seed.

A million pin-prick explosions across my chest,
searing sin and shit and swears on every wall,
reading like scriptures from now extinct philosophers,
their words not ink but fuel to the burning library of crumbling saints!

And in my madness and despair I am reborn in body and in soul,
no longer burdened by reality or by rule,
for I am truly at peace.
Now a corpse in the eternal catacombs of time.

I sit and I wait and I rest on the fix,
now still in form and thought and dream,
smiling now I am cured of my angry itch.