There's a space that begs for poems
But I have no blood to write in
And I'm too young to choke to death on broken dreams

And I'm drowning in these memories
But I have no blood to fight them
So I think that I should probably go to sleep

But I'll sit here in the space you've made
From poetry and rhythm
And I'll try not to feel the weight between these notes

And on Sunday they will talk about
How Jesus healed the broken
But they'll never stop to ask who crushed my feet