But there isn’t.
And staring at the screen trying to think of one, funnily enough, isn’t really helping.
There is, however, in the general theme of bad poetry, a bad poem I wrote less than a year ago when I had a headache, about the headache.
Less than a year ago, suspicious… suspicious enough to lead me to suspect that it might, in fact, be the same headache, lurking. Little fucker. Maybe I’m allergic to rhymes. So, a good thing I never became a gangsta rapper like my mother always told me to. Word.