Another bad poem

There’s something calming about the colour green. Just like pink, red, blue, black, white and orange.

Been raising a headache,
for several years now.
Like an unwanted child,
in my body, it stays, though,
be it day or be it night,
be it now or be it then,
it is always around—no pretence.
Some labyrinths have no escape,
like a roulette without a stake.
Spinning round and round,
it loiters in my skull,
a prickly pain, a gloomy sign,
of terrible things to align,
nicely hidden behind my eyes’ sockets.
There isn’t any cure for certain curses,
don’t ask me why.
It’s just the way life rolls,
the difference between joy and none,
what is said and what is meant,
a storm about to burst on your shore,
looking for a door inside a coffin.

I hope this retreat to poetry induces an ever-lasting headache in you.