It is what it is.
A stroke of a pen,
pixels of light,
A heart scrawl,
Screaming emotion
Or pleasant thought,
Wether it pops out
Or is coaxed,
from the ether of consciousness
a soul's awaking yawn
It is what is
and lives as it is born
Tinkered and toyed with
all manner of distortions borne
It sits in its reality
a nieche of existence
A poem waiting to be heard and judged worthy
because it speaks to a another soul.
It is what is
not a jot or itoa more
There it is KS
There it is
KS