Tonight at work I got a migraine, likely from stress. The drive thru was short one person for a good portion of the night and we were busy. I pushed through, not just finishing my shift, but doing the best I could despite the pain.
For that reason, I decided to share a poem I wrote that captures my experience with migraines. It was originally written in March 2016 but it fits tonight very well.
My head’s almost dead,
Throbbing and crying out
in pain with every
movement that I make.
When, oh when
will this torture
cease? When will
life return to the
The painkiller was
as I expected ‘twould be,
The waves of pain and pressure
The torture won’t stop,
it’s hooves continue to clop,
clop, clop, moving onwards yet
nowhere but circles in my
brain, nearly driving me
insane with the increasing pain,
discomfort, and pressure.
How much longer can I handle
this Headache without breaking down?
A short narrative poem by Alyssa Wright about Robin Hood’s first attempt at thievery.
The time had come when
Stealth was now an order,
thought from whom cannot be said.
This was the test,
Would he be able to put into practice
all that he had prepared?
The archery was surely safe,
no contest to be found.
Sure-footed, strong, senses heightened,
He was ready for the job.
Up a wall,
In a window,
Past the guards,
Through the door,
Reach under the pillow,
Grab the key,
Run out the door, down the hall,
Turn the corner,
Unlock the vault,
Steal the treasure.
Before the night was gone,
the treasure was no longer in his hands,
Having been delivered through the windows
of the houses of the poor.
This narrative poem was originally written in January 2015.
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A short poem Alyssa Wright wrote in February 2019.
deja vu perhaps,
Could it be
of a dream
something lived before,
Could it be
of a thought
time had lost?
reliving our lives,
finding circles of time.
Could it be
what we once
A fictional narrative poem by Alyssa Wright about the traveler mentioned in Walter de la Mare’s “The Listeners.”
I purposefully misspelled the word traveler to reflect an archaic spelling. This poem is a response to Walter de la Mare’s “The Listeners.” I originally wrote this in November 2014.
The people of the house’ve gone crazy,
An uproar found at every turn;
The Traveller’s come to visit,
The curious mister’s come!
Whyever could he be here,
How long will he stay?
The people are all anxious
To find out just the same.
So they call a meeting,
Ment’ning the Traveller’s name.
“He should make a promise, to prove that
He is safe, he means no harm or folly
To come upon our sons.”
“Whyever such a promise?
Such thing I cannot prove,
For folly is of something that I find does amuse.”
“So you say you’ll bring us harm?
Or that you are cruel?”
“For, nay, I say, but this I cannot prove.”
“If you bring us an object, a thing of a
Rare find, and in pristine condition,
Just as how you find [it];
We will grant you trust and invite,
No ridicule here for you, Traveller.”
He shook his head,
“I will be back, if not but soon.
This ‘fact of old possibly with me.
But know that I am coming,
Coming upon you thus:
I won’t send a warning, day or night,
I’ll show up and expect a welcome,
But not accept lavish gifts and such.”
So he left, the Traveller.
The peace returned to overwhelm that house,
For they had grown used to having
That Traveller about.
But as the days had gone,
With no sign of his return,
They all started [to] grow weary [of] wishing Traveller home.
The years grew long and fin’lly,
Those first old men burnt out,
Left the house to their young sons.
Still yet more time went by,
The Traveller not about,
All [the] boys and girls of [the] old house
Thinking he was but a story their
Dads had told them all but full of flout.
When finally the people of that house had
All gone out,
There came upon the place — the Traveller,
His promise yet unfulfilled.
So the house was full of phantoms,
Those men we spoke about,
List’ning to the Traveller
Say he’d brought the promised gift.
A short narrative poem by Alyssa Wright about a fictional bike crash.
I watch, cloaked in invisibility, as the
boy straddles the seat.
A look of determination etched on his
face as he pulls up one,
Then two feet into the air onto the propellors.
Push, push, push,
Around, around, around go his legs.
Arms bent at the elbows, hunched back, bottom lifted off the seat.
He flies down the street as a streak,
Figure barely to be seen.
My eyes move ahead, then I turn, throwing off invisibility.
I barely make it outside,
he is heading into…
sprinting to come close enough in proximity
to Warn him of impending doom lurking nearby.
He sees me in his peripheral vision,
pulling up on the reins slightly, slowing his stylish steed to
A mere trot.
I simply motion forward, he scrutinizes the spot,
alarm overwhelming his features as he,
Too, looks into Danger’s cold, dark eyes of cruelty.
He slows even further before stopping his craft.
Danger did not succeed, the
Crash never occurred.
This is a narrative poem I wrote in November 2014. I only made one edit to it. The form is a bit odd, but as far as I recall, it was intentional.
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A short poem by Alyssa Wright about the impact of humor on a serious situation.
How do you add
Humor to Solemnity?
Something funny to something serious?
It’s really quite simple:
What is your
attitude or your tone?
humorous or solemn?
funny or serious?
A sprinkling of a
humorous tone or attitude
Can work wonders
on a situation.
It can make someone
Laugh despite circumstances,
This is from September 2014. I made a few minor edits.
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Two poems I wrote in January 2016 about having the stomach flu.
These poems were written on January 11 and 12, 2016. I am not currently sick.
I’m feeling better,
but not great.
I’m still feverish
and have a headache.
But my stomach
isn’t killing me,
and I won’t puke,
Which is an improvement.
Now I’m able
to sit up comfortably
though I’m hoping soon
to take more medicine.
I thought I was better,
but it seems I was wrong.
My stomach is sharp-edged,
and my headache’s a throb.
I may not have a fever,
which is something, at least,
But I didn’t eat lunch
and I can’t afford sleep.