Toothache 

Teeth: a battle from birth to old age,

Floss, brush, breath — a lifelong stage.

But a toothache comes with cruel, sly grace,

And leaves you drowning in shame and disgrace.

Pain is a king, absolute on its throne —

No hurt you have ever felt comes close:

Not a limb torn free, not a finger cut

by spinning steel or a rusted nut —

Nothing can match the sharp, fierce law

of a tiny molar’s cruel little claw.

It bores through your skull while you lie in bed,

Till you think “I’d be better off dead” —

Just the dark haze, the misery’s weight,

As your head turns into a vibrating plate.

Then the cold truth, sharp as a knife:

“Next opening — three days of your life.”

You pace the floor, you plead with the clock,

Lock every door, pull tight every lock.

Rub on strange mixtures, swallow pills fast,

Pray sleep will come and make it all pass —

But your jaw ticks loud, a bomb in your head,

Waiting… waiting… till the dread is shed.