William Sinclair Manson

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My-Poetry / Writings · 1 May 2017

My Poetry. The Migraine.

Silence in the room
is what you require
your head is spinning
You start to perspire.

Alone in the dark
the pain is immense
nothing is helping
To hell with expense.
Feeling sick
you cannot relax
round and round in circles
Migraine at its max.
Certain foods you eat
can make it worse
this horror in your body
A satanic curse.
You cannot see anyone
you need to be secluded
the slightest noise
Terrifies the alluded.
Eventually the pain
starts to depreciate
you can face the light
From the window grate.
You can cope with pain
but migraines bring you down
you cannot do anything
Expecting to drown.

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