In a hospital bed you lay still
feeling the hurt drift away
and then you think to yourself
"I'm getting better, finally I'll be set free."
only to realize the euphoric state is not one of destiny.
You remember that on your arm is fed
a collection of aching denial and unmade beds.

You thought you were to go
You thought your wings would soon mend and
You would taste the sky
But the taste of freedom you longed for was just a wasted line.

You're fed on a drip of danger,
caught by the rod of an impending death,
being reeled in with the promise of life;
not aware that this world is constructed of lies.

you think its helping, the morphine is spreading
but its just a delusion
The happiness is not real
You are not better.