Needless Things: Chicken Skratch

They say it’s ink, but I know blood, It pools in lines, becomes a flood. The walls are breathing, soft and black, Etching screams in chicken skratch.

Tiny claws, too fast to see, Skitter through the cracks in me. They write in riddles, twitch and twitch, Each letter cut, each vowel a glitch.

Nails on metal. Feathers flayed. A nursery rhyme the dead once played. "Cluck, cluck, cluck," they chant and scratch, A song that hatches in the thatch.

I found a name beneath my skin, Carved it deep to keep it in. But still it moves. It won't detach. It sings in loops in chicken skratch.

Time is melting, clocks are meat, The floorboards twitch beneath my feet. And every step’s a broken match, A spark, a hiss, a final catch.

Don’t trust the pen, don’t trust the page, They hold the cage, they feed the rage. The ink is screaming, smeared and latched, A thousand thoughts in chicken skratch.

So pluck my mind and boil it clean, Let silence sterilize the scene. But still I twitch, and still I hatch, A broken soul in chicken skratch. NNN