The Thorn

Like unsavory memories of a bad love affair,

                      you cling to me.

Like scraping sounds of nails on blackboards,

               you mark your presence.

         Like a thief, you steal my dreams

          and boldly delight in my despair.

              Or is this thorn-like pain,

        just my self-imposed imagination?

    As proof, I offer to snap your picture,

        but you hide insidiously in my head,

           making those around me think

                 I'm a hyprocondriac,

                          or worse,

                   just plum crazy.

        But you always let me know

           you're still inside my brain,

    as you keep whispering your name,

                     "Migraine"