As I do every day
I will never be tired of asking
While hoping you get tired of your silence.
Why do the roads
Have to be dark before they’re lightened?
Why does the empty sheet of paper
Hurts more than the already printed one?
Why after wanting that rose so much
Keeping it gave me more sadness than joy?
Why do you give me questions
Without the slightest clue on how to answer them?
And how long will you be of stone
Until I can feel myself alive again?
