This Rusted Bed of Nails
I'm feeling judged still by what jury's found cold; in the courts of February
Tried to hide 'til July; warm feelings are just not meant to be temporary
I count my curses on one hand and my blessings on the other
Whichever fills up first; the latter will assuredly smother
The shadows always seem to know that light exposes the darkest holes
You can't get over it or crawl out from under it; within me no angel controls
But I'm willing to watch over you mimicking their heavenly roles
With its gift, I provocatively compose about the most wishful goals
Laying on this rusted bed of nails; made with the hammer of trite
In love, if there wasn't profound real pain, would it ever feel quite right?
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