a generic Pain poem

Pain is a petulant child
that holds it's breath
and smashes plates
on the dirty ground
with an angry thrust.
It cavorts with wild
intent, daring sleek black
daggers of rancid hate
to fly around.
Rest a red crinkled cheek
back down to rusty
sleep.  "It" will wait
for snores to solidly sound.
Then silent storms strike down
in a tangled rush.
Dry, scratchy eyelids
reminisce sated
closure.