M. Phillip Brown
Real friendships, are hard to find—
as those in younger days.
Excepting you, as you were—
regardless of all your ways.
Never worrying, about getting hurt—
in an argument, in a fight.
Words were easily forgotten—
the wounds left, were always slight.
Growing closer together—
concerning yourself with theirs, and not your needs.
A garden of friendship, now blooming—
where once there was only weeds.
It really didn't matter—
if it was boys, or it was girls.
'Cause friendships are more precious—
than any manner, or size, of pearls.
All those carefree moments—
are cast, like jewels upon your heart.
You wouldn't have all those memories—
if you hadn't, let friendships start.
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Comments about this poem (Friendships by M. Phillip Brown )
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(2 June 1840 – 11 January 1928)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
William Butler Yeats
(13 June 1865 – 28 January 1939)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(27 October 1914 – 9 November 1953)
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