it will be called poetry

i write on the walls of my cave while outside roam the saber-tooth tiger and wooly mammoth they will blood you and eat you if they can but in this cavern my home i feel safe somewhat smug as i assiduously work from my palette of dirt and spit it helps protect me it is incomprehensible to them and centuries from now so will it be to ardent scholars of this the past but it is mine and i understand it will be called poetry