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 )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Henry David Thoreau
(12 July 1817 – 6 May 1862)
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