The throb in my head is a suggesting trauma.
Strictly fixated to a singular space.
Piercing lines and fluid pressure.
Light sensitivity makes me nauseous.
A blacksmith beating an anvil,
Forging acute pain.
Repetitive, obsessive, and unending.
Throbbing eardrums falling through levels of airy cotton ball bags.
Fathoms deep in a migraine trench.
Splitting my skull clean.
Each snare drum beat turns me useless.
Pistol whipped wary, blood pressure building aggressive toward a death destiny.
We're all on a road to somewhere.
O zi minunată!
Island boy, city life.