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.
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