Nine Hundred

I skipped over rocks without socks And I walked on doors without floors I went with money and came out bankrupt, I spent time in jail without any cents And forgot about how she came and went It was so far away and near Long whispers that she couldn’t hear It was always about love not an idea Not an account number To sum up a poet blunder I thought about how I could sit back And wonder? On how to forget so quickly She didn’t even miss me She became Miss America in my Her, something to die For somewhere if I could find a place to cry I wouldn’t drink so much water Drowning in my sorrow at the alter What do poets know? About how linguistics grow? Is money the sum total? That is not the way to go I thought it was the morning when she came in Now it’s as black as sin This is a story of a pregnant poet That died foe seeds to sow it I took a candle in my eye And watched the match’s get lit And then tears started to cry Only when I went to the funeral I started to die When I went to the sky there was air in my pocket Rapped around my heart are her chain and a locket She punched holes in paper with black hearts And I discovered the cold pain of hieroglyphics and the arts She painted souls red Laying on the grass called a bed Dancing on my idol soul Where her sheep where led Filling my tears with a bowl Because there isn’t enough room