Poet, Write What You Know

All I know is this headache.
Flaring pain circumscribes my world.
You might say it hurts like being circumscribed
without anesthesia. This is how you might think
if there were room for you in my head.
Poets still write far too much
about love and roses.  I’d love to be rid of
this headache; it blooms like a red, red rose.
It hurts so much I cannot remember
if this headache caused the rain
ot the other way around.   I feel like
I could vomit up roses, a bouquet,
long-stemmed.  I have just enough strength
to put down the pencil and close my eyes.

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About Ray Sharp

Father, poet, triathlete, local public health planner
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