If you're awake at 4 am,
You're either in love or lonely,
And I'm not quite sure which once is worse,
The thud of a broken heart,
Singing out from inside my chest,
My lungs gulping down fresh air like water,
In some desperate attempt to refresh them,
I can hear the static cracking back and forth in my veins.

It's all just static,
Stupid broken T.V static,
" Can't find the right channel " sort of static,
" Can't find the right ******* place to fit in " sort of static,
That thoughtless, mindless, blank-brained, numb-to-the-world sort of static,
It hurts just as much to feel nothing at all.

We turn our pain into poetry because anything that hurts this much,
Has to mean something to someone,
We don't use diaries,
Because those are meant for secrets, and we have none,
We let them spill out onto paper resembling bloodied bandages,
Because to be an artist is to bleed without the use of a sharp instrument,

We romanticise our heartbreak like it is the only lover we will ever know,
All of our love,
It is written into confessions,
That we will never speak,

We dance with devils and we are all gods,
We play a constant game of catch-up with the sun,
Then we dance until the stars come down from the sky,

We dissect ourselves until we shatter like glass,
Yet we get so confused when we break so easily,
We are the poets who write our poems onto the backs of pizza boxes,

The artists who sketch their thoughts onto bus stop walls,
We are the misfits, the broken and the bruised,
But we pushed through,
When society didn't give us our space,
We carved one out and called it home.