P M S.

Your head hurts,
Your stomach rolls
You feel drained,
You lose control

You curse God
You curse Nature
For gifting you
With this monthly torture

Shallow eyes
Sleepless nights
Easy arguments
Quicker fights

Fiery temper
Weak in the legs
Drunken stupor
Stop it, I begs

Take it back
Gift of woe
I willingly offer
Take it and go.

Had posted this once before here. But a topic like this, deserves mention. Over and over again.
*shuffles away, feeling miserable*.