sometimes I just want to write
but the feeling tells me its not right
The pen, its madness, ink badness
the love of paper for my pen the harshness

The strikes that I draw all around my thoughts
The thoughts that flow others me huchorea coz
thinking is not always accurately positive
simply the mathematics is a notifiable vindictive

planes run through the head
all this mostly happens when am in bed
apart from creativity, what one needs is the ability
to me writing is the order of the day nothing that mighty

lifeless accord, battles that need to be won
its a gift to stick to pen pop it up like corn
the tip that i get its price is nothing compared to value
filthy the feeling on my pen takes it off the loo

writing is unexplainable
it is very attainable
something really incredible
so am serving, serving something edible