Ballons

I feel like 
Im walking 
down a dead end road. 

And the houses,
they're whitewashed
and plain, 
their shingles 
fluttering in the breeze.

The weight of the world
sits on their shoulders,
making the roof sag,
like holes in my pockets. 

At the end, 
there aren't any woods
to go exporing in,
to find love in,
to mourn in. 

Just balloons
tied to anchors; 
and I am a red balloon
tied to an anchor,
fluttering in the breeze,
suffering from the fallout
of living down a dead end road.