Ow...My Head...

I can think of nothing else. I can feel nothing else. Nothing besides the pusling pain Emmiting from the middle of my brain. Is it the weather changing? Is it my health changing? Did I not sleep enough last night? Or is just tension wringing it tight? I see double of the keys, Then one of each once more. I can only guess these words... I dare not look no more. I guess the best and only cure, Is to quit this creative allure. And to crawl beneath my quilts, And take leave of these throbbing jilts. Headaches though such hindering irks, Do possess such facinating quirks. Just trying to locate the pain, Takes more stratergy than any game. Then indeed there is the question, Of the type of ache that's made it's mention. Round and round in circles it sends you, Much how this poem continues. Round and round your sulking head, Till at last you drop into bed. Albeit feeling like the dead. Which is much the way it... stops.