Wednesday, November 23, 2011


She lay like old laundry in a dark room.
Tossed and unfolded upon the nearest rest,
Soaked with the pain and depths of gloom,
Throbbing colors and flashing lights.
Her head bloody split from fore to aft.
Her life all drained and seeped away.
“Don’t bother with the empty skin,
Just let me die, just let me lie.”

They roll on waves without warning,
Tsunamis, crushing currents, these migraines,
Which are assassins of the lowest form
Whose knives tear and stab and maim.
All her willingness to exist at all
Has left her useless, limp and drained.
“I cannot reach you with my love,
I’ve tried, I'm tired and I’ve strained.”

Photo by the author.


Anonymous said...

I sometimes suffer migraines. You describe them exactly.

indiwriter said...

You describe the pain so well.. It is not a topic on which one often finds poetry.