Olo!

I'm called the Song in the Skye.

I write for

The kids who aren't okay.

The kids who live their life on the murder scene, still cheering for revenge.

The kids who've lost their fear of falling, 'cause they all have a deathwish.

The kids who are welcomed to the Black Parade, and choose to march in it.

The kids who aren't afraid to keep on living.

The kids who aren't afraid to walk this world alone.

The kids who fire at will.

The kids who have hopeless hearts to make them ill.

The kids who look for Destroya.

The kids who know this ain't a party.

The kids who sing it for the world.

The kids who kill the party and never go home.

The kids who know to move their body when the sunlight dies.

The kids who are from yesterday.

The kids who won't bow or break.

The kids who try to find their place in the diary of Jane.

The kids who have their breath taken right out of them.

The kids who go on until the end.

The kids who say goodbye as they dance with the devil.

The kids who ask for a sign.

The kids who try to find what lies beneath.

The kids who sing the anthem of the angels.

The kids who ask for dear agony to let go of them.

The kids who go into the nothing.

The kids who rise in revolution.

The kids who are sick of it.

The kids who aren't going to die tonight.

The kids who ride the circus for a psycho.

The kids who have the madness in them.

The kids who are welcomed to the freakshow.

The kids who feel like a monster.

The kids who need a hero to save them now.

The kids who know what they believe inside.

The kids who know that their time is running out.

The kids who still believe.

The kids who sometimes can't be put back together.

The kids who know who Lucy is.

The kids who ask if it would matter at all if they were gone.

The kids who know what is better than drugs.

The kids who wonder if they will get over it the older they get.

The kids who remember those nights.

The kids who are falling inside the black.

The kids who are looking for angels.

The kids who hear the whispers in the dark.

The kids who have open wounds.

The kids who know love can take a little more.

The kids who have an obsession.

The kids who have everything out of reach under their fingernails.

The kids who are drowning in imperfection.

The kids who know it's already over.

The kids who are wasting time.

The kids who will hide and sing a lonesome song.

The kids who can't forget.

The kids who know they can't prove this illusion.

The kids who try to start again.

The kids who will never be the same.

The kids who are afraid of what's inside their head.

The kids who have nothing and everything.

The kids who kill the machine.

The kids who let it burn.

The kids who are buried beneath.

The kids who watch you crawl.

The kids who are on the outside.

The kids who sing the hymn for the missing.

I write for the ones who've fired the bullets and felt the revenge.

For the ones who don't love and aren't loved.

For the ones who've faced the bullies, gave 'em hell, and hung 'em high.

For the ones who've marched down cemetery drive in the black parade.

For the ones who taunted Korse with "na na na," and sang it for the world.

For the ones who have faith and fear collide.

For the ones who laid comatose, then came awake.

For the ones who release the panic.

For the ones who march into the nothing when the lights go out.