My migraines have become so severe that
I would let a stone-age brain surgeon cut
A small triangular hole in my skull
Let out what is haunting my grey matter
Maybe if I had a waxy layer
A bulge of spermaceti behind my eyes
Adjust the pressure in my cranium
Protect against atmospheric changes
But then I would be chased down and hunted
By hoards of nineteenth century sailors
I’d destroy their ships with my giant head
And tear their flesh with my rows of sharp teeth
There seems to be no way to get relief
Nothing to stop the overwhelming pain
