What to you hear when you pound your head against a wall?
Bunk. Keep it up and you become a bunker.
Or paint a racing stripe on it. We don't care.
What's up there? Besides stuff?
More stuff? Or less? Stories?
Look once, look twice. No one cares.
You still don't see it.
Leave your pen light at home then.
Kinda bright, considering how dark it is.
Interesting though. (Tingly too, especially in the middle.)
Where I grew up, they called them flower petals.
Around here it's blue holes. I get it, sorta.
Painted on a wall.
Yet still happily flapping.
It Came From The Garden One Morning.
Full of color and sun.