Nine Hundred

Written by: Matthew Thurman

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