even the trains are blue at night

everythings coloured blue in the frost of winter. i wipe the biting marks of the wind off my face and rub my knuckles warm before coming in.no one is on the roads during the freezing night, everyone is staying in. the roads are stained white with winter, only one light on in these houses called homes. this is your home, they call it surburbia. the winters are too cold, summers too hot, obligations run deep and parallel with family. you say i don't have any friends, but that's not true. you say i don't let anyone in, but that's not true either. sing a song. your aunt is wrong, mother's harsh, father's trying, brother's gone. my soggy cigarette stub says otherwise. it says to me, darlin' let the smoke in, roll the window down, let the cold air in.
let the cold air in.

who is to say this blog is useless? it is my poem, my prose...written a little differently letting the stanzas form as quickley as the thoughts in my head.