Something must be able to stop it,
The itching in my brain.
The itch that is never scratched for long,
And easily complains.
The itch that exists in the core of the mind,
That is searching for relief,
Not knowing it is itself the cause,
For its own misery and grief.
Facebook, Twitter, the next social media,
The TV, films and the games,
These things at my fingers like artificial nails,
And yet the itch in my brain still remains.
No more scratching, no more fixing,
No more asking the world to relieve it.
If the itch can’t be scratched by anything outside it,
Then I will stop even trying to ease it.
The itch had been the looking in the first place,
Demanding the world give me peace.
But asking the changeful to give you rest,
Is like demanding your heart not to beat.
It doesn’t make sense, it goes against nature,
The forms are not where my rest lies.
Until it is seen we are beyond all of these,
The itching can’t wither and die.
Then the world is spirit’s disguise.