It all starts like a brick,
heavy,
shifting in your head.
You wish it'd just be lightning quick,
but it often tends to stay instead.

It makes you question everything,
No, you're not dead.
It's all in your head.
Just go back to bed.
By the way, you can't fix your problem with a med.

It's a cry
It's a scream
It's a begging self-philosophy.
I hold it up with a lie.
If it were a dream,
it wouldn't feel so real to me.

A storm in your mind,
all the creatures combine,
building up pressure,
they'll say that you're fine.
But that's not true,
they will lie to you,
then say there is nothing they can do.
They will fake,
your mind will bake.
It's not a feeling you can shake.
A lot is at stake.
I know.
I know where you go.
Digging yourself a dark, lonely hole.
Scratching out death, is your goal.
My migraine, is like a permanent stain.
Killing me; driving you insane.
I count the days like a prisoner in a cage.
I know how it feels, I still stand upon that stage.
Trying to withstand the rage,
and flip page by page,
but you can't even engage.
Since I was a kid,
it was no secret what the pain did,
yet I never hid.
I would just explode,
implode,
and be the **** you'd discover on the road,
maybe one day they will find a code.

And we all walk a lane,
for those who suffered this pain,
the agony of the grain.
That mysteriously grows in our brain.