My Type of Bed

There are days I want to die
Sleep in a pool of blood
Lying there so peaceful
Mind incapable of flood.

Most days I wake up rested
From a bed of sheets so cold
To a world of sour people
Some young, some wrinkley, some old.

Until I find my place of peace,
Where all but I are dead,
I wish to be found only in
That lonely, bloody bed.