When on those nights so cold,
who was there to comfort me but my own bed?
It may seem odd to some,
but for me my bed has always come.
I wrap myself up in it's blankets,
form a cocoon of everlasting peace.
Where pressure nor stress can haunt,
and where no man can taunt.
I talk to myself.
Some might think I'm crazy for doing so.
But what's so crazy about it?
It's pretty normal for me.
My bed has become my home.
I live within it's walls.
Sometimes I become too comfortable,
and bathe too long in it's enveloping walls.
I sometimes find myself in extreme situations,
"This must be due to my bed!" I exclaim,
"It's persuaded me too far this time."
Of course, by the next day,
or even the next hour,
I find myself in those places again.
Perhaps I am to blame.
However, once I've realize where I was,
I instantly recollect my thoughts.
Regret what I was about to do,
and hoped instantly for a new.
And, for a while,
every thing seems to make me smile.
The walls of my bed have faded away,
and I am left in a state of allay.
But that time must come to an end.
According to my bed, it will only begin again.
My bed then reminds me of everything.
Every red line on the skin.
Every rope from the tree.
Every bridge dived from.
Every falsely committed sin.
It reminds me that these exist,
and I will remember for as long as it insists.
Some people asked me to make more bed poems
