The worst hurt is the hurt of those
who chose to love you,
blessed flew in like doves to you.
You're amazed at such an awe,
but before your applause,
the dove dug deep with it's claws,
And the pain of he/she who adores
deplores,and the dove soars
with the wings of a boomerang,
and again resumes the pain.
The heart of the child is mild,
with confusion running wild,
with no hope left,
accepts the depths
and blames the self,
and loves you still
with the will of a mill-
ion souls
traveling through winter's cold.
Loves you beyond your quick temper
and sharp tongue,
and the scratch trapping the song,
in the pain,
in the pain,
in the pain,
in the pain,
and the pain resumes
leaving no room
for the butterfly's tune,
to remain unbloomed
by love in pain's cocoon.
Touched by an angel,
beat by the devil,
cowering somewhere in the middle,
waiting for you to settle
your inner bittersweet conflict
hurt me,love me,
heal me,make me sick.
Touch me,hit me,
kiss me,
hach tu spit.
I sit and rock me,
you open arm flock to me,
only to openly mock me.
My eyes now to cross to see
if love is hurting me
or if pain is loving me.
And the child,heart mild,
confusion wild,
loves you still.
