Migraine

Head. Desk.

Not quite the perfect partners,

but it's a start.

The cool plastic finish

almost steaming

hellish skin.

 

The light, which should be friend,

cuts like Excalibur

through tormented brain.

Streaming eyes

and waves, tsunamis,

in stormy stomach.

 

Some poison from another world,

must have been the cause.

Nothing on Earth can possibly

feel like this.

Author's Note

Written many years ago during a somewhat painful Maths lesson.