Poems are scribbles of lines, on a paper
Scribbles, nothing more nothing less
Made up scribbles

Scribbles that take shape into emotions
Into joy fear anger
Feelings of flattery and expression
Mixing and molding as if they speak
Yes…

These scribbles through their end and curves, whisper their weights upon
Handing us a candle to bring forth their message

Scribbles that take the form of color
And through their highs and lows they present an image
A portrait
A mirror

The scribbles are what we call literature
It is what we call art