Never truly finished,

Always bitter like whisky,

Mix it with lemon sweet,

I sex with it,

On bed called brain,

Through medulla,

Coordination takes oath,

And my left hand,

Drops down rains of,

Words such of poem,

The sun was born in the east,

Art but born in me,

Daily out like the newspaper,

But not edited,

Hidden as vagina under skirts,

Opened when taking a shower,

Convinces the grey haired people,

Even through it a dance by the hippo,

The writings won’t make you riffle,

Rich of sandy words like desert,

Weighing light like dessert,

Doesn’t tick tock call it the hour glass,

Never taught in class,

Poetic doctors no operations writings in plus,

It will never end like tomorrow,

Coz it started yesternight.