For some I am big and bellowing,
Like the wind itself.
For others I am the squeak,
Of a book on its shelf.
For a baby,
I am soft and never cynical.
Always filled with an untouched joy,
It's almost criminal.
For mothers,
I am a memory,
Of their children's youthful existence.
For the young have but a passive resistance,
To the struggles that seem to come at random.
For the old,
I am but a dying thought,
Because their remembering the world,
And the lessons taught.
The wrinkles bunch upon their face.
As they free me from their throat,
Slowly saying their final grace.
Though I am healing,
I am hurtful as well.
I may fill empty hearts,
But large amounts of me can make people dwell,
Upon their mistakes and imperfections,
Misdirect their good intentions.
Whether I'm breathy or howling,
Quiet or flowering,
I am different for everybody.
In the comments below please guess what this poem is about.
YOU ARE READING
The Flavor of Poetry
PoetryI recently found out that I LOVE writing poetry! This book will be filled with all sorts of poems. Don't be afraid to suggest topics for my writing in the comments.
