It's 3 a.m and I'm still awake,
I pick up the pen and put it to the page.

With every word I gain some feeling,
With every line, I look for answers.
The scratch of the pen meets the beat of my heart,
The hideous scribbles trying to be art.

It's 3 a.m and I'm still awake,
I pick up the pieces of myself that keep falling,
Pick them up to keep from breaking down.
With every scratch of the pen,
I only break more.
Every wall broken down,
Every facade shattered,
And everything under the carpet is swept out the door.

It's 4 a.m and I'm still awake,
I put down the pen and rip out the page.