wake up every 5 am with coffee stains under your eyes
the bitter analytic was once a child with daisies in her hair but now there's only demons in her head
she wasn't beautiful as the ocean but she had the depth
the type that always noticed the shift in the air after midnight
bright eyes turned into her mother's, sullen and pitiless
they told her to stop looking at the stars and to start looking at her future
soft hands turned into her father's, brutal and calloused
they told her to stop fixing people and to start fixing herself
there was a child with roots in her veins and hands softer than flower petals
she talked about the universes stamped on her fingerprints and compared them to the bark of trees
but now she only talks to her demons
the ones that ripped the daisies out of her hair
you watch the news, think "oh, how horrible", when someone's been murdered and feel horrible when you realize you didn't feel a thing
grab a coffee, always black, rub your eyes and hope you get through the day without malfunctioning
the earth gave her a youth her parents couldn't offer her but the world took that away
this isn't growing up, this is oblivion

the coffee shop on 1st street
you told me my eyes were warm and belonged here
I shrugged and gulped my coffee even though it burned my tongue
the bookstore on 2nd street
you told me my hands were made of love from the pages I've turned
I glanced at you and nervously chewed my fingernails until it hurt
the music store on 3rd street
you told me my heart was an acoustic guitar that'd been misplayed
I tripped over my shoelace and madly tied them up along with my heart
the arcade on 4th street
you told me my smile was worth all the time and effort because I deserved it
I went to the bathroom and before I left I smiled in the mirrors a little too hard
the beach off 5th street
you asked me what I was so afraid of that kept holding me back
I let the sand crumble between my fingers and told you that I was the sand and you were the waves

something's wrong when kids are running away from homes
and taking comfort in alleyways
it's "one of those nights" every night
where the moon mocks your very existence
laughing at how minuscule you are
because you are just a strand of dust
floating in this vast universe
maybe it's that very thought that drives kids to runaway
in search for something more than what a home can offer
how can anyone feel at home when the stars you see are dead
and you don't know which god created this thing called life and why
how can anyone blame the kid for taking comfort in alleyways
at least the darkness won't judge him like the walls in his bedroom do
you know something's wrong when your kid left the window open
and the suicide rates are increasing
with social customs and ideals
we missed something along the way
the missing puzzle piece to this thing called life
what importance is it if no one's going to leave a mark
but artists will still starve on the streets of cities
while corporate sellouts run them
and maybe that's why the kid ran away because he's an artist