Very odd poem on young adulthood

The decrepit trees stick up from the swamp upstairs, discarded hairbrushes with the bristles too brittle and broken. It’s the second doorless frame on the right. The one with fresh green paint sliding down in timid rivers trying to find its future in the right split in wood. The old brushes are doing a horrid job detangling the clouded ceiling, though minimum wage isn’t a big motivator, so the clouds are now curly knotted messes bleached over lonely teenager starch blue, and residue in the waxy leaves freshen fingertips dipping into empty perfume bottles. Grass is the remnants of impulsively cut hair finding itself as a natural depiction of its owner rediscovered, trod on only by others and avoided in conversation. Sunsets and happy mountain hugs hang in crooked unison on the raw wood walls amid years of pin-hole constellations marking them. 



No idea what to title this