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{"There is a part of me, 
Of us, 
That lay deceased underneath the frosty elixir and the lightning bolts that puncture our bodies. They magnify and embroider our wounds.
They strenuously scorch and extract our flesh. They reap and pluck at it without a prophecy. 
It burns, physical pain which I cannot tolerate already, yet this, we cannot catch up to, this unavoidable pain, we coop up inside, baritone within our souls. 
We are frightened to reproduce it or incarcerate ourselves further into the other youths. Because in the back of our minds, even if we cannot retaliate. Addicted to amplifying their hope inside, to not living realistic of the damage, the crevasse. Towards the bottomless pit of losing the proficiency to visualize with their minds, instead of their hearts. Up to yearning for expectations to shroud them. Stability comes with rationality, we shall amplify ourselves as mere representatives of tragedies, that persist in dwelling on their Eighteen-year-old love. 
We threshold at ourselves and show them the marks and bestow them with honor. 
We are the broken, my mighty soldiers. 
We are the fallen. We are the blunders. 
The very ones whose hearts have gone cold, the emotionality inundated and drenched us in the opaque downpour. Our insides shivered but now they shan’t. 
They follow the footsteps and guidance of their hearts, as have I. They let go of their ambitions, and I die a little scrap more inside because it is not worth it, the duration, the ache, the dwelling, the anguish, the recession, the painkillers, the bombardment of vapor. 
We dismembered our hearts, and that punctured within, we lost touch with reality, and when we did. We thought of ourselves as the miraculous emptiness, the ones whose worth doesn’t even hit a milestone. 
Oh, The same mistakes that enact like something out of hereditary. You weren’t taught to lose yourself in this hurricane of devotion. Instinct theory, how I curse every part of it. 
Even though it has been ideologically implemented into our DNA as black magic, mysticism, and sorcery. You bolster on performing on your instincts, though this is not a circus. 
From the storages of our basements, they are engraved into our souls, the way they postered their feelings onto us made us Les Miserables. We ignite our souls into flames to create extravagance and we feel your pain as if it is ours. 
For we are the ones who buried our insides seven feet down and dismembered the hemp of our hearts in the name of love.”}
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