Scratching-Olde Punk

I think I finally scratched that itch. You know the one. If you don’t then fuck off, you don’t need to be reading my confession. Got a lust for a bust and I am on the cusp of something. Eyes wide with the fear of the near. Not looking for repast, I am past living in the past. A fast turn away from memory lane. Don’t care whether first or last in line, I gotta make do with the left side of the righteous. I am due a rebirth and we lay down to the last carol. If I can figure out the next step, maybe I can stop the scratching I hear outside the door. Tight fisted in bed with my sweat and the words that pursue me down the coal mines of time. It’s black and dusty and my eyes burn red; whether with the truth of madness…