The 4am Poet

She is the most her at 4am, staring at a blank machine.
Her fingers whir, sonic on the keys, allowing her mind to bleed.
They always say actions speak louder than words,
But the girls' legs don't work and she doesn't say what she doesn't mean.

In a world where value is whoever can shout the loudest.
Boring, hermit girl, she may be forever cursed to live quietly.
Little certainties slip past the frontmen as they argue,
But she knows that the whispers shouldn't be taken so lightly.

Her renegade imagination is nightly lost to the circuits,
A closeted madness, outwardly unremarkable in the dimly lit room.
She claims words for her own, wielding them as weapons and medicine,
Mulling over distant truths, in her sleepy, crippled tomb.