When we buckle under jewelry / Or stand proudly with battle scars / We are never remembered for as long / As beyond what is comfortable, possible.

Where possibility is defined / By the impossibility of a bright / Polka-dotted coward, who's daring enough to / Both dream and follow through.

Why paper burns without matches, I don't know / But here, in a weakling's paradise / We'll write so one day our words / Will frame our hearts in hyacinth stones.