In the dark, lonely hours after midnight,
I feel so alone. I’m not alone.
In the dark, lonely hours after midnight,
I am here yet nobody’s home.

My words are my voice with which I speak
yet no one can truly, clearly hear me.
My words are my voice with which I speak
yet why don’t they release and free me.

Words that are true, loud, gentle and cruel,
I write and I write and I write.
Words that are true, loud, gentle and cruel,
all hours into the cold forsaken night.

Perhaps if I stifled them, stapled them shut,
maybe if I whisper, or never let them out.
Perhaps if I stifled them, stapled them shut,
consequences from my words wouldn’t sprout.

Unsure if these words are a blessing or curse,
perhaps I could ignore them, cast them away.
Unsure if these words are a blessing or curse,
I wish I didn’t have anything else to say.

I love you I hate you please don’t let me write.
My words drive me mad, they spar in my head.
I love you I hate you please don’t let me write.
If my words are alive, does that mean I’m less dead?