I woke up in a crasher's bed for a stranger
With a creak from a fuzzy heart overstuffed
That slipped under my ear through the night.
The sun dried my lids until they cracked open,
The brightening colors felt fresh, and the smell,
As old as the night before, but already spoiled.
It was a morning without an oil painting
And I laid as still as a portrait thinking:
Here's to the life that I couldn't lead.
It's a punch in the mouth, but at least I can bleed.
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