Gasolene Puddles

Trying to capture the sky’s reflections in gasolene puddles, Though I know there’s nothing but rubble, at the bottom. But, If I looked so high I’d puke before I saw the ground, but around here, it’s hard to stay safe sound. Red hands burn out, before the ashes fall down, I hope I could hide these burns away, but the box frames seem to stay, seem to grow on blue. Blue is the color I love so much, but not like this. Blue Is sundays. There’s something about sundays, that makes everything worse, it’s living a bombshell, waiting for time to burst, No sunshine just “I hate you’s” and “You need to go’s.” Shut the door behind you! I think should go, where the child’s things grow.