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Matthew Kraft Poems
The white sun fell while the Sun was down. When the Sun rose the white sun started to fall. In the light the white sun became many suns Red suns, Blue suns, Green suns, Any Color suns.
To some a paradise may be A tropic island, sand, sun, a palm tree. The temperature’s a balmy 72 degrees. Seasons never change, it feels like purgatory.
My(In Poetry I find me. In Poetry I find others. In Poetry I find my friends. In Poetry I find my brothers
This prison of the mind is a disgrace. They can't trap your thoughts and ideas they said, they lied to my face. Nothing is flowing in my dead mind.
So I’m sitting on a park bench with my miscontent My discontent. For what surrounds me I see I can’t be free
These sleepless nights I lie awake What is real and what is fake This sleepless slumber will not end Hours last for days and start to blend
The cold Never grows old. The heat Can’t be beat.
When something is broke it is never truly broken. A memory is just added where what’s missing should be. Who is missing is never truly lost, For the lost never know where they are.
This long hair sticks out of my chest. I yank and pull with much distress. I pull and strain with all of my might, This mighty long hair is putting up a mighty long fight.
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
The white sun fell while the Sun was down.
When the Sun rose the white sun started to fall.
In the light the white sun became many suns
Red suns, Blue suns, Green suns, Any Color suns.
Until the light from the Sun was to much, and the white sun disappeared forever.
But what was left, hidden under the blinding light of the white sun