I walk outside and have to squint my eyes.

I do not know of whom to blame for this.

The bright sun or the place in which it lies.

To why must I suffer for what this is?

There are times that you ease my discomfort.

When the clouds are dark and the rain is out.

This feeling is felt in my dark, gray heart.

And that joy, that brief joy, questions my doubt.

But then you take away my precious shade.

The painting in the sky has gone away.

My strong dislike for you is greatly weighed.

Will you grant my wishes another day?

You bring discomfort in your violent lights.

What should I expect, this is Boyle Heights.