Nineteen

I breathe all I can,

Lungs remain a dry land,

Anxiety filled to the brim,

Dead numb, oh my skin,

The psyche has perished,

With nothing left to cherish,

I write this sad serenade,

To mine, many a face,

Many melancholic masquerades,

Some stand ground to be free,

Some die when they kill their dreams,

Suffering alone and scared,

We are only nineteen.