The Bed of my existence

I feel edgy, my heart hates hospitals, and it  hates psychometry 

This lull between your words at each conversation now

Your half packed bags, questioning if half empty or half full

Is an admission test now for an optimist pessimist classification 

Do you know Kunju? Enamelled objects, I hate those

You see, the hospital beds are enamelled white, devoid of fun

I admit, it is easier to clean after a loon hits his head resisting 

But why white, why not red, simplify already

Then there are those enamelled plates, the military has them too

But then isn't a person in love any less than a soldier, executing choices

None of his own, always in compliance, to expect no love back and love by pure will

The plates, darn you, can't even shatter those in a chance frustration

Then there is that ugly ugly white gown, worn like a floating ghost

Obviously, i agree there is no better representation for a guy in love like me

Who decided to go all in, be emptied, become a shell, float endlessly

Besides, I am always trapped by Love's hurtful malice

This love feels like a ward at this stage, from me needing to guess and weigh my guesses

Before i cast it into words, my words forever have been my utter bane

For all the walls I have raised, my words leak and reek of fake pretend strength

And running into people speaking of understanding love doesn't help too much you see

So let me do what I do best, "listen Kunju it is fine" 

This new fork of your river's flow is an intangible endeavor sans furore

It drips ever so slow into my veins, as I stare at the empty hospital ceilings

I will drift into my slumber now, with the vein you feed severed below