The head is a troubled evening,
nightshift storms rolling in,
brain thunder, eye lightning.
Visions approach like trains.
Surfaces collapse upon each other
like an imploding hotel.
Pain jabs, buckles, bellows,
conducts a symphony that’s all percussion.
You press your fingers deep
into your palms,
nails like glass slivers,
fool the headache a little
that it aches more in your hands.
But then it kicks your brain some more,
flings some thoughts out through your mouth
as groans, as moans.
Occasionally, the punishment recedes,
the suffering lessens.
Something in you
whispers it will end eventually.
Then the pain returns
to take a hammer to that something.