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
a.l.c
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?”
Oh my, just a babe in arms… writing like a 100 year old! So much life to live!
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Yes, the older I am, the happier I am with me
and the freer I am to set others free.
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That’s a sign of growing in age, but also in maturity and love. God bless you! ♥️🙏👍
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Lovely little poem. Happy birthday.
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Happy Birthday to you … 😎
Pour yourself a glass of liquid truth 🍷
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Happy birthday.
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Reblogged this on The Reluctant Poet and commented:
Happy Belated 31st Birthday!!! Have a great year!!!
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Happy belated birthday!
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When I was thirty, I often felt like I was sixty.
When I turned forty, I felt like I was twenty.
I said I hoped that meant . . .
When I am eighty I will feel like I am forty!
I too have always been an old soul —
More comfortable with people older than I — always.
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Beautiful words
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