I'm really quite frightened in this flabby little form.
I've tried to tell them that I don't like being alone.
If I squeak just right then she’ll think I’m hungry.
If I squeal quite wrong, then he will get angry.
It's hard for the formed soul to express through the child's mouth.
It has to wait a long time of growth to find its way out.
Months and months of milk bottles and nappy changing.
Years and years of being small, wet and cold.
Slowly from baby to boy, even slower from child to man.
Then the soul gets lost as the body starts growing old.
The growing old is just about the opposite of growing up.
Then one day the soul is free to find another flabby little body.
Comments about this poem (Small Soul by Alan Bruce Thompson )
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