The golden mile warrior; speaks treasures on his silver tongue,
and bronze teeth. Like the echo of a gun, only after, the
the true event begins. As now the crowd is disturbed from it's  natural peace.

He's desperately trying to drown an ocean, as so pointless
as the inkless tip of his favourite pen. He faces the endless
journey to nowhere. With all the time in the world, to waste
it all again. The drops of tears, and blood in the ice of his parent's
cold words. "You'll never amount to anything," they've always said.

Where dreams lie, are those resting on them a thousand slumbers until the kiss of their charming. As the fear of waking up to soon, ironically is always so alarming. For if you kept on being called a nothing, all you'd dream of is being some what
of a something.

Something of a fool, somewhat of a tool to all their opinions.
Raised by the sun, for the brightest of all his ideas. But taught by
a moon for hiding them all in the dark. Well, reflective of one's limelight, the falling rock hoping to be a shooting star.

A fancier of an easy silent death. The fall into a maddening decent, and enjoying that ride right until the end.

A story of a million endings, but only a few he's willing to choose. Bending your back, bending all of the rules. As he'd try to fit in the crowd, in all of their shoes.

The people pleaser, of those who take for granted his help.
I remember him enjoying to cut himself. By the chance he lost the feeling to feel any hurt. As when you've been criticised by
an opinion's roast;  you get so used to being burnt.

I feel sorry for this warrior, but that would mean I feel sorry for myself.

The battles of which he faces, are those outside. But the war he'll always face, is that never ending war inside of himself.

The story of the Teenage warrior...