There’s no plot, no meaning, or point. Who’s writing this script, anyway? Then glaring through tight squinted eyes: If it’d do any good, I’d complain. Who’s writing this script, anyway? My part isn’t worth getting up. If it’d do any good, I’d complain, but who listens to unknowns like me? My part isn’t worth getting up. She pulled back her hair with the brush. Who listens to unknowns like me? Her fingers were twisting the curls. She pulled back her hair with the brush and looking into her own face, her fingers were twisting the curls in silence so perfect and bright. And looking into her own face, the tears were already there. In silence so perfect and bright she slouched and let go of her hair. Her tears were already there. There’s no plot, no meaning or point. She slouched and let go of her hair, glaring through tight squinted eyes.
Delivering Poems Around The World
Poems are the property of their respective owners. All information has been reproduced here for educational and informational purposes to benefit site visitors, and is provided at no charge...
1/15/2021 10:27:46 AM # 1.0.0.396