The bed I've made for myself keeps staring at me and I march to lay willingly in it.
Oh the bed that I've made,
I always do this to my being.
Giving my soul away, only for you to beat it,
and how hard you keep hitting,
but still, I keep breathing.
Yes, I'm still living for an on-going beating.
Oh, the bed that I've made,
you swallow me down into your darkness,
while he throws over me his madness
and yet, I find myself covering in them.
The warmth they always bring,
this is what draws me in.
For a while I forget about the feeling of emptiness inside me,
as I lay in the bed that I've made again, and again,
from my continuous sorrows.