A scribble on paper

That most would overlook,

A young child’s portrait

Sunk the hook

And landed its spot

In _my_ hall of fame.

“Why?”

You may ask.

“It’s nothing

Fantastical,

Just a scribble.”

It may be

Naught but a scribble,

But it’s overflowing

With fresh passion

And bountiful effort.

It may not be

As_ “good” _as something

Made by you

Or by me,

But isn’t__

_“Good”_

Different through the eyes

Of everyone?

_In my eyes,_

_This scribble is a_

_Masterpiece._

If you look hard enough,

You’ll see

The fresh passion flowing out

From the child,

The one who plays and shouts,

They poured their heart

Into this scribble,

And isn’t the artist’s passion

What makes art

Art?

The fresh passion flowing

Is a true way of showing

That this is more than a scribble…

It’s _art_.

Bountiful effort

Was put into this,

The child gave it

Their all,

Their touch,

And all the effort helped make it such

A masterpiece.

Fresh passion and

Bountiful effort

Swirl and dance together

To make art,

And in this scribble,

You can see

That this is art…

At least in the eyes of

Me.