A rushed poet, Practice makes...
Rushed to font his inner most ambitionto run.
It was simple.
Shorts, a run a stop
round n round till the Moon is crowned
Crowed by the sweat
Knocked up
exhausted
flaunted chest flip flatter breast breathe deep to the beat
Again and again I gain drained by pain cause my energy is sane
Thought too supple flattery
Skip-hop n hip drops
rain takes no offense and water drinks my sweat
tomorrow more practice.
Please login or register
You must be logged in or register a new account in order to
Login or Registerleave comments/feedback and rate this poem.