Pisaries Creator

I know the itch I can’t reach.

I know the one. 

It’s on my back just far enough away.

My fingers can’t get to it no matter how much I want to relieve it.

I run to any person nearby to scratch it.

She misunderstands me.

I run to the next person, and he can’t follow orders either.

I think people should listen more.

No one else sees me because their backs are turned.

I feel it’s done purposely.

There are garbage cans on every corner.

They stink including the forks with food caked on them.

A used napkin is good enough in desperation.

I shouldn’t litter even though food will stick to my hand.

Nothing to see here as my arm reaches behind me.

You cross my mind as I get some relief.

The itch has stopped.

I know the one, returning when I least expect it.