Author: Barbara Goodhew
Now that I'm older little things don't matter.
When I was young used to worry about all the chatter.
The whispers behind my back made me mad.
Now I don't ccare it just makes me sad.
People have nothing better to do.
They can't see what others are going through.
If life begins at forty,I'm only eight years old.
This time I'm going to do what I was told.
No more believing what I hear.
Was told believe nothing what you hear.
Only half of what you see.
That's the way I want to be.
Comments on this poem/writing:
|shirley (126.96.36.199) -- Saturday, December 26 2009, 07:23 pm|
I heard it about gossip it was like someone stabbing a feather pillow on a highrise building balcony and then letting the feathers blow in the wind, and then to try to fix the problem it casues is like trying to gather all the feathers back up again.
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