A pretty face is your disgrace
and a pretty brain is mine,
They will be the end of us,
but after all, so will time.
YOU ARE READING
No Longer Blank Pages
PoesíaWords spiral across the page/ channeling the pain and rage/ of a broken, and sad writer/ who pounds the keys of a beaten typewriter./ Tear-stained yellow pages/ fly across the ages/ and the hands of time turn/ never back and always forward./
Our Disgraces
A pretty face is your disgrace
and a pretty brain is mine,
They will be the end of us,
but after all, so will time.
