A second rate painter is he,
throws every colour to make mine
a bliss out of shabbiness,
A witless writer,
Who writes my pages without my knowledge,
A lenient teacher,
Who makes a hell of memories and joys ,
violence and noise,
Yet A perfect doctor to have by ,
Scribbles all pages in my life,
There is not -did you know page at the end,
For there is endless pages,
In book of my life that he owns.
©abiab
A