(To all those who bear the burden of Boarding School Syndrome,

 I invigorate you to walk on with hope in your heart,

 And you will never walk alone again.)

 For poetic justice's sake, I wanted my life to be a murder mystery...

 And I lived leading people on to different versions of what I essentially am constituted of,

 A coward thriving in the shadow of idealism and make-believe.

 'What I wouldn't do to be the stuff movies were made of...'

 And with every conviction I utter lies.

 I'll believe in them and I'll make you believe in me too,

 Till I break myself, and you remain a bystander,

 And then I'll kill myself for the shame. 

I haven't faced rejections enough because the idea of its existence has made me afraid to venture,

 And so, during the times I do, I never forget.

It's especially difficult for someone conditioned to want to be loved,

 And want to match up to demands of appearances. 

The quest for truth isn’t mine, that’s a fucking clichéd myth. 

I want clarity, but the voices in my head…

 The Voices, The Voices. 

Because we both know what is possible, 

That the rusty blood sticking to my bones does not scream 'Martyr'.

 They whisper a different cry, one that I refuse to echo.

 Failure is far from that.