She sits on her desk Without any rest. Thinking 'bout the world
Her life already written, Her tale already told
But will she ever fit in the mold?
She doesn't paint her pots anymore.
''I'm too busy'' She's always busy. She doubts herself again Will the hereafter ever begin?
But she has a hidden talent A talent no one has, Pots are her talent.
She's my mother, She's like no other, She's my pot artist.
OK, I REALLY NEED TO KNOW WHY THE HECK U GUYS ARE FOLLOWING ME. THANK U GUYS SO MUCH!!! STAY AMAZING AND KEEP WRITING.