I'm not particularly wonderful.
I can't enhance one's reality
I'm penned by a bored and wilful writer
I don't have a distinct quality.

I may have rhyme, rhythm, or I may not
I may be emotional, or dreary
I'm a work of language, of random words
I may be soothing, I may be scary.

Some of you say I'm one of a kind,
Some of you aren't sure where I'm from,
Some believe I exist for a reason,
Some reckon I'm remarkably dumb.

You may think I'm an exhibitionist
I'm not aware, I can't care what you say
But I love being read, when your eyes see me-
Insignificant, but it makes my day.