Matthew Pearson
Matthew Pearson Poems
through the gaping, cracked, mourning
a finch’s pulse ceased. Salzburg never was
so distant before. In her hands, charcoal
sketchings. Long, nicotine stained depictions
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The Best Poem Of Matthew Pearson
The Death Of The Writer
through the gaping, cracked, mourning
a finch’s pulse ceased. Salzburg never was
so distant before. In her hands, charcoal
sketchings. Long, nicotine stained depictions
of the man who stumbled. Growing up
in that house, even the shadows stumbled.
Piano recitals with a cane to correct errant
fingers. Aged, unsurprised, still unstuck,
too many trapdoors to fall through.
Matthew Pearson Comments
You read like a Satanist to me. How do you know I haven't faced adversity and have no humility? Because there are some lousy poets on this site and I tell them?
Poor Matthew...you silly boy, your immaturity and insolence is oh so typical of today's narcissistic youth. I hope and pray that your harsh opinions of others is one day tempered by humility attained through adversity. Best wishes my brother! kenneth
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4/30/2024 12:39:17 PM # 1.0.0.1119
I am being sincere, you must be the most inept fruitcake that has visited here in a long time. I hope your mama likes you. H