Grown Old Poem by jim shannon
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Grown Old
Words do not roll off my tongue as easily as they use to
There is gravel in my voice, my hand trembles when I write.
A flight of stairs winds me,
climbing a ladder is madness.
I tell no one about these things
or how long it takes to type this poem.
I'm afraid to let them know
I have grown old.
Friday, March 17, 2017
Topic(s) of this poem: growing old
POET'S NOTES ABOUT THE POEM
the fears of the old
READ THIS POEM IN OTHER LANGUAGES
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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5/7/2024 1:55:06 PM # 1.0.0.1119
Very touching and honest (unless it's just from the recesses of your imagination.) First poem on here? Welcome to the site, and congratulations! Please continue to write!
Thk you, but honestly it just took less than 2 minutes to write. I have no idea where it came from.