Ill

It’s time to cry
or to sleep off the drugs
to lay in the grass
to burn in the sun
It’s time to sleep
through all of the pain
to keep all them bruises
fresh in cellophane

Now, there is a light
I’ve heard it said
but I don’t have the right
kind of eyes in my head.
and altho’ I can love
in that true way that kills
I’d rather be loved
in your way, and be ill.