Written by: Matthew Thurman

Blond strokes fill the mad heart
With creative ways of thinking, other than art
When I spoke of literature and finding new ways
To observe these foul days
I never knew you until
I thought about the windowsill
Then of course with a leap of faith, I died
When the things of life get away from, wind tunnel emotions
Rivers without oceans, nothing is the same, it’s just the same
Nobody at all is the blame
It’s just that
When the old year’s get fat
You run out of things to say to a woman
But you know where it’s at
Running out of time is exhausting and words fly
To high far above the floor
And things get twisted out of context
When the mind seems vexed
She turns into her
Then the night turns into a blur
I thought she said she loved a loved, like a kiss
Underneath the sun x-rays, that is when we miss
Something fulfilling and life threatening
This I find very upsetting
Because I get an opportunity to talk
But get the door closed in my face
Right along with this long walk