Matthew Pearson

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Matthew Pearson Poems

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

Matthew Pearson Comments

Herbert Nehrlich1 28 April 2006

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

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Herbert Nehrlich1 25 August 2005

Yes, time does, indeed, fly. H

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Matthew Pearson 24 August 2005

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?

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kenneth william snow 24 August 2005

Poor 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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