My Poetry. The Migraine.

Silence in the room—
It's all that you require.
Your head is fiercely spinning,
You start to perspire.

Alone within the dark,
The pain is so immense;
Nothing seems to help at all,
To hell with all expense.

A wave of sickness rising,
You cannot truly relax;
Round and round in endless circles,
The migraine at its max.

Certain foods you eat,
Can surely make it worse;
This horror in your body,
A truly satanic curse.

You cannot bear to see anyone,
You desperately need to be secluded;
The slightest, smallest noise
Terrifies the mind, deluded.

Eventually, the pain
Starts slowly to depreciate;
You can face the gentle light
From the window's old grate.

You can cope with other pains,
But migraines bring you truly down;
You feel you cannot do anything,
Expecting now to drown.

© William Sinclair Manson 2025