Poetic souls linger in thought; lost faith in their sense of perfect in the combat between reality and hope.
A sound mind yearning for vocals and sense of realness.
Expecting, expecting, expectations;
God knows they break, their chords intertwine, and their words stutter.
Then expect the bare minimum and oh God, they've learnt.
Constantly adjusting but instead of breaking when losing they re-brand and mold themselves. Fading claps to the young girl who no longer entertained shadows but protected her light.
