Some people have this ability to make you feel,

Shaken, coughing, snotty, and altogether ill.

I’ve met them before, and I know you have as well,

For though I know it’s rude to say, you simply don’t look swell.

These people are an illness, and, darling, here’s the cure,

Don’t let them into house and home, don’t give in to their allure.

Shut the door in their face, don’t bother to be politely vague,

Or this simply cold, you’re struggling with, will turn into the plague.


I’ve Learned

Ten years old,

I’ve learned how to tie my shoes.

Twenty years old,

I’ve learned how I like my booze.

Thirty years old,

I’ve learned to get up and go to work.

Forty years old,

I’ve learned to appreciate my quirks.

Fifty years old,

I’ve learned my kids are now adults,

Sixty years old,

I’ve learned to ignore the world’s insults.

Seventy years old,

I’ve learned how much a person I can miss.

Eighty years old,

I’ve learned how precious time here is.



A/N: I thought it would be funny to write a poem where someone was compared with a rose but in a bad way. And somehow, this came out. 

He often tells me that his love is like a rose.

And I think “No kidding, boy, you sure hit it on the nose”.

Sure, she’s pretty and she smells so lovely too.

But her personality is her thorns, that vengeful, spiteful shrew.