Scribbles, thoughts of the mind. Can’t make any sense. Can’t understand. Can’t decipher. Just long pages on junk. Turning and wont stop. What’s going on. What can’t I read it? Scribbles of life, of love, of faith, of purity. But none on who I am or suppose to be. The scribe was lazy. Didn’t complete his masterpiece. So here I sit…left with scribbles...scribbles I can never comprehend and never will reach because scribbles dominate me.
