I have an itch.

There's something inside me.

Everyday it grows larger.
Like a hungry toddler, It whines and yells.
I, as a patient parent offer fodder,
But it continues to belt.
This, have it you ever felt?
A burning hunger for violence?
Your judgment starts to doubt,
Because I'm begging please!
I need your guidance!

Before I lose control.

This instinctive rage is hard to please.
Snapped pencils, crumpled paper, what's another few trees?
I'm told it's man's disease,
But he screams and disagrees.
On dark snow fields I beg the shadows.
I ask them for the fate that I chose.
A hungery lion, a frightening tiger, or a furious bear.
It's better their flesh then yours that I tear.

Dear God do I dare?

I have an itch inside me,

Its teeth begin to bare.

These hands are cracked
from over work and lack of care.
Once fine oiled machines,
their gears propel lightly through rust and grime.

A mind of exhausted emotions,
broken down dreams, and dismembered hope.
Retained only through studied behavior
and societal judgment.

Living is merely a system of zeros and ones.
'Units' flow in-time of funding,
a routine tolerance permits.
Exhausting the grace
and sizable knowledge of life's good people.