Walking on glass, no aid has been offered.
Crying loud over my sorrows, the closest ones tend to hear it all from a distance.
Blank expressions, empty conversations, all to make up what is a called a connection.
Weights on the shoulder dragging it all down, but a foot to the head doesn’t seem so heavy.
Uplifting others, bringing the mind to the clouds, yet the hands of which were brought up, do not give some in return.
Do not expect, for which disappointments are made.
There is no obligation for any type of aid.