Fill up the masses and leave us alone. Among these ashes 
there ain't no place to grow. We're called the lone kids 
of our broken throats. Tired of yelling, we've got no 
place to fall. And i admit i am nothing but the opposite 
of your decisions. Building myself on the anti-pattern of 
the golden wounds. Among these ashes, turned up by crows, 
we are staring at the surface, hoping for welcoming hands 
to cut through this dark sea. But carry your burdens, no 
arms will get open if you're not a new martyr.