There is a freedom that comes with the pen.

The scribbles across the page

Create mountains and rivers of emotion

Lethal as a paintbrush.

Words are my paints.

Scribble, scribble, scribble.


I would not describe myself as a poet.

Nor do I say I am an author.

I am just a thinker

That explains in rhythms and rhymes.

Words and wonders.

Scribble, scribble, scribble.


Sometimes it doesn't make sense.

Sometimes it does.

Sometimes it doesn't know how to feel.

Sometimes it has all the feelings in the world.

The world is better described in poetry than a textbook.

Scribble, scribble, scribble.


Does this sound better this way?

Or does this sound better that way?

Poems can be transformed.

And rearranged.

Scribbled over for new words or meanings.

Scribble, scribble, scribble.


Poetry is another type of freedom.

In a dimension of its own.

In an artform of its own.

The pen is free here.

And being lost does not mean its a lost cause.

It simply marks a new meaning into a way of thinking.

Dot, dot, dot.

This poem is about: 
Our world


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