not a jot or iota less or more.

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




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