Cramps.
A pain inside.
A throbbing ache.
A mystery of my body.
The nausea, the stinging.
The confused fatigue.
My pulse pounding my head.
My blood crawling
I can feel the core, I can pin point,
But I can't make it stop.
It starts inside, and suddenly as if a giant eraser was coming down, I go pale.
Then the warmth to my hands and forehead.
And my skin grows needles that poke around underneath everything.
No position can escape it.
Nothing I do dulls it. POP!
Pop the pills. So at least I interpret it as a muffled piercing,
taunting, making me crazy, pain.
Then shaking, and curling, crying and sweating, vomiting and praying
I enter the next stage of PMS.
Sometimes it's easy to explain, but at times like these you can pick up the phone and begin speaking before you dial.
Your chariot is missing a wheel, and the horse has a cold.
Such is fate.
And the brain,
without a heart no words make sense.
Without the feeling you bring...
and it's raining,
on your umbrella.
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