If I could cry numbers of statistics and bellow rants about deadlines, if I could, with one wave of my hand, sweep away the burden that causes the pain you feel.
The pain you feel, like a thousand-ton anchor weighing your heart down, pulling your hopes down, sinking your self-determination, creeping into your veins and exits through your eyes.
Exits through your eyes, neither tears nor blood, but regret but anxiety but fear, that bares your soul helpless.
Your soul helplessly crying numbers of statistics and bellowing rants about deadlines.
Then will you give up on me because I turned out to be different than that you bargained for?
