My Name is Something Stuck

I am 

waiting

for neon

scented buds

to bloom. 

For them to

sprout

not from 

earth but 

from the

moldy

tiles of that 

old home

where I

sat on a

rocking horse

painting 

pastel

rocks. 

Foolish, foolish,

foolishly

we stay here

watching. Do

we not all

lack

something 

Stuck?

I am

waiting

for the dusk

to yawn

clouds made

of nothing

but memories

where

I am 

waiting 

for the morning

glories to

once 

again

bloom at 

Night.