This Itching - a poem

This itching I feel
Deep in the back of my head
Is where it seems
my migraine has fled

driven there by drugs
Or water and rest or such?
or was it the creative flow
of the pen and paper touch?

The movement of rhyme
from my brain is spent
As I wonder where
my migraine went.

I miss it not;
from its clutches I'm loosed
And it seems my poems
have been given the goose

Jumpstarted they've been
As my brain doth flex
With poems of love and breezes
Dill, muscles, pens, and sex.