We pick flowers from their beds
While they stand firm and bright,
Proudly put them in a vase,
Showcase them like a prize.
Then one night their petals wilt,
Colors start to fade and dry,
In the morning we wake up
And throw them out to die.
Thirty one petals
The poem above is a walk through of some feelings, fears that have been creeping in on me the last year. Every year Time, Calendar, and Mirror tell me I am older, but I only feel myself growing young. I am a little with an old soul, born into the world with aged insides and a humble heart to big for my tiny body. I am finding age gifts me loosened palms and the courage of a child that I never had.
I turned 31 this month. Happy late birthday to me.
Note to self: “What you waiting for?”