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We all have a story,
broken hearts from battle wounds
and simple breaks from when adolescence decided to take over.
And kicking imaginary bad guy butt became,
something everyone was
“to old for”
When I was little I wished on shooting stars,
flying through the night sky
I thought they were broken down telescopes
that scientist couldn't see the past through anymore.
I thought they were like beautiful asteroids.
Cause for some reason we judge them like we judge us
and nothing matters but whether they sparkle or not.
Weather they cast a shadow on something we think is important or forgot,
But we have all left something for the universe to devour on our chests
because we were all made from a piece of atlas
and we can juggle the weight of the world on our serial numbered chests.
But a few of us,
a few of us only have our shoulders.
Because somebody left our open heart wounded,
and our chest is too sensation for the pointed tips of stars.