Knocking.
There must be someone,
something.
Knocking on the wall
of my head.
For every day
and every night,
my head pounds.
Even when I lie in
bed.
Light pierces and burns,
oh
and the pressure.
It presses against each side
of my skull
like a juice press and squeezes
                                thoughts
of my head
like it’s making some kind of
concoction.
Why me?
Why every day
for as long as I can
remember
has my head pounded.
Maybe
just maybe
It’s the words,
        knocking
                knocking
on my mind.
Asking to be
                spilled
out onto something concrete.
Maybe
just maybe
this knocking,
                pounding,
                        tortu­ring,
feeling inside my head,
is me?