Bed of Roses

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At my thinking table, I sank into deep thoughts;
Thoughts deep enough to hug the deep blue oceans dry,
Dry was my tongue, watery were my eyes,
And the whole world sat at my window at which I gazed;

I picked up my pen to take note of some connotes,
Of how I saw real men running with their legs in their hands,
Triplets tripping off the hands of certified midwives,
Many happenings pinning people to a castle of bad luck.

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Amidst the periodic breakout of rain over the earth crust,
Why does it seem unachievable to grow roses on our beds,
And everyday we secretly wash our dark and dirty linens,
With the bittersweet sweat from our unending toiling?

Life isn't a bed of roses, so they say;
Nothing ever seems easy while I breathe in and out;
I'm done lying on a bed void of roses - hopeless;
If life hasn't got roses for me, I know my deathbed will.

Bed of Roses.