It’s a curse —
or maybe it’s a blessing.
It’s not my place to judge —
I’d only be biased,
so I let you judge for me.
A cup filled with water,
add a little more and
it will overflow,
spill every which way.
I’m a cup, overflowing with love,
spilling in every direction,
sometimes landing in harsh hands,
promising eternity,
but those hands leave
once their thirst is quenched.
So I wait,
a full cup left untouched
in an empty castle,
hoping for a king.
Is it a curse,
believing in a throne
no one wants to sit on?
Going through phony princes,
pretending to be kings!
Is it a blessing,
to still hold this much love
and not let it rot —
or is it a curse?