The Thorn

Like the 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"