It’s crows perched on the arch
of each orbital bone, pecking
at that brain tissue that controls emotion—
a jackhammer at my nerves—
at those lobes where ideas originate,
guarding them from forming
& I am so irritable, don’t
want to hear or see anything.
It’s rocks filling my skull,
replacing that swollen organ,
banging around, echoing.
The rocks push through bone,
push out my teeth
it is worse at night
when rocks grind
jaw distended,
everything is rocks.
1 comment:
Um. Wow. THAT is descriptive. I am only sorry you have enough related experience to write such a poem. Owie ow.
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