Living here with no money is like going
To battle with no air support—it sucks
Hot rivets. You’re not fighting—you’re just throwing
Yourself against a door that only bucks
Can buy you entry to; and when it’s closed,
You’re outside looking in—a wannabe—
A poor sad fool whose fortune’s been foreclosed—
A starving brute beneath a fruitless tree.
Is money that important here? Is breath
What our lungs need to live? It’s the same thing:
You cut both off and it’s a gasping death;
You let them flow and we keep soldiering.
From grunt to REMF, we share the same condition:
Money’s not just a tool—it’s ammunition.
Copyright 2015 Matthew J Wells