Two days, then three, three to five, five to ten.
The list can go on and on.
How many days till we have a conversation,
how many until we communicate?
I understand I'm not perfect, but nobody truly is.
Why then, must I. You put me on this pedestal made of glass.
Crafted by your own hands you put hours upon hours of work into it.
Why then do you knock it down with the bullets you call words?
