Art Form Poem by Jessie Jett

This.
That.
These,
Words.

They come.
They stay.
So easily.
So uneasily.

An undying passion.
Tenderness, and such affection.
They fill this head,
And pour with satisfaction.

This.
That.
These,
Words.

They come.
They stay.
Forever bearing.
They just keep weighing.

These words.
Those that many adore.
These words,
Can be such an art form.

Perception.
Many recollections.
To have this hold.
Boundless words we chose to control.

This, or that.
A love infact.
For many adore,
These words as an art form.