BORN IN THE HUM WHERE THE CITY BREATHES

Born in the hum where the city breathes,

lights trembling like they’ve been awake too long.

Static curls around my ankles,

guiding my steps through alleys

made of half-remembered dreams

and broken neon halos.

I learned early that silence is rare here —

the world speaks in voltage,

and I was shaped by its whisper.

Raised inside the tremor of streetlight glow,

my pulse synced itself

to the distant roar of passing trains,

to the hum of machines

making promises they never meant to keep.

I found my rhythm

in the cracks where sound gets lost,

where shadows shift

but never fully disappear.

Everything here has a language —

the windows, the wires,

the worn pavement breathing warmth

from forgotten footsteps.

And somewhere between the noise and the night,

I found myself repeating a truth

I didn’t know belonged to me.

Born in the hum,

carved from electric quiet,

I walk with the city’s pulse inside my chest.

Every flicker, every glitch,

every dimmed corner

feels like home speaking back.

The world breathes,

and I breathe with it —

a child of static,

a spark learning how to grow wings

in a place built from ghosts and glow.