Beautiful people never write poetry
they never admit that under their
clear smooth surfaces, something cold
boils, or that fear and anger dine
beyond pale blue eyes. No two long legs
have enough envy in them to compare
themselves to anything other than
two long legs.
Lovely, smiling lips hold no
tortured voice. the silky hands
hold no gnawed trembling pen.
No fine, clean, healthy cell
could hold a song for freedom.
Beautiful people never write poetry.
Beauty can make nothing more
and nothing less than what it is.
But look at that barren old man
Dancing with sorrow -
Look at his eyes.