The red running down
the back wall was still wet,
As it was concealed from the air
By a glaze of rain water.
The bucket sits almost empty,
The hairs on the brush stained red, and still dripping.
For a whole days work ruined
By a cleansing of the Earth.
The red keeps running, smearing from the wall with the raindrops.
I stand there, hands stained red, up against the running wall.
I realize I can't get through the light of this day
Without the job done, or I could finish it with my own blood.
This wall is my life,
Because I feel it smeared, and all over the place.
I feel I'm not keeping my head, like the wall,
As the top now has run off all the red.
I am upset, and I'm angry.
I hate the world for smearing my life,
When everything around me is being washed the right way.
And I feel cheated out.
Because this stained wall,
It's more than just a job.
It was a test of self-evaluation,
To see if I could really keep my life together.
And I feel like things keep messing it up,
Like they don't want me to succeed.
It's like they want me to suffer,
So they can live a clean life.
I feel like there are too many things that keep smearing my wall,
Too many things that keep washing away my fresh coat of red,
Too many things that keep me from becoming a fully finished, fully red barn.