Does this follow Iambic Pentameter?

This pain is up, and down, a burn, migraine,
My suicidal days are on Sundays,
I don’t know why, they’re dismal, full of rain
Death seams better, than this migraine some days.

It’s me suspended in defenceless tests,
Tested by these ruthless examinants,
My mind is full of hurtful pests,
My aspiration, devoured by ants

But no one is able to see the pain,
Wars fought behind my face, above my throat,
All that I wish and dream down the drain,
But all you can do is laugh and gloat

I drink to your end, to the days come and gone.
For my days of oppression are finally done.