Bricks are problems.
Hard, cold, small problems that can be stacked together to be one big, deep problem.
We all have them.
Each and every one of them.
The way I see it is that our bricks are on the floor right in front of us with no one to hold them and listen.
We have them there, wanting to give them to someone who might care, but instead, we stare and hands become bare.
The way I see it, is a tray in front of me, empty with my own bricks left to be.
I hold a small pebble, big enough to make me offer an ear
To anyone who would want one to carry their bricks and hear.
I do; I carry everyone's problems in my tray
And hold them up high above my head for the sunlight to stay.
The way I see it is aiding someone and carrying their bricks creates a smile on their face for they are being satisfied that someone was willing to carry these picks.
They would apologize for always handing them out, but I say I don't mind and I never shout.
If only someone held my bricks.
Then, another familiar face comes and hands me their bricks as well.
I don't mind, I say again, I'll listen and they tell.
The way I see it now is that I am in the middle of a circle of close strangers, who constantly hand me their bricks.
Some are heavier than others, but that does not stop me; no, I see them as sticks.
I hold them over my head, to raise those spirits high and proud.
When I want to take a break, I try to set them down.
The horrible frowns start to form the lower I set,
So I lift them up again without being a threat.
I can never take a break.
I must hold these bricks, no matter how much I ache.
The way I see it is that it's useless trying to hand my bricks to someone.
While I hold others, mine are left on the ground and nothing to be done.
I lift one up with my foot and hold it in the air
Until someone suddenly tosses me more and I drop it down there.
I try to offer my bricks, I really do.
I hand them only one and hope that it flew.
Just one, I thought, Maybe they will offer the rest but for now one.
One of them says they don't mind and take it to the sun.
For once, I feel relaxed.
At least someone is holding one and I with stacks.
Suddenly I see them sit down.
They begin to talk as I begin to frown.
I feel more bricks pile up at the mountain over my head.
My bricks aside and I left to dread.
They gave me their bricks, ten times more than I delivered
The one and only brick I offered has been forgotten, like one of a failing liver.
I can't reach it.
The weight is heavy.
My arms are busy.
I can't set down the tower of bricks.
I'm back where I started
If I carry everyone's bricks, who will carry mine?
My bricks, in front of my feet in the dark.
I can only stare at them and hope for someone to notice and carry them.
No, I wouldn't want anyone to carry it by force.
I'd rather wait for an offer than to cause discourse.
If only there was anyone who is willing to carry my dull and dusty bricks
Then I would have never felt the need to be this sick.
Bricks are problems
And those problems are heavy restless shits.