Maybe When I'm Old Enough.

Maybe when I'm old enough, I'll understand why

I need to be old enough to understand.

Are the secrets to life etched into the lines

that map a tired face?

Do the tears that fall from the windows to our souls

mean more than the twinkle of mischievous grace?

Is the rarest smile more valuable than the one that is

given free?

Or are they all the same, a stretch of the lips,

however used they may be?

Can understanding and quiet be more than enough

for one who sits alone?

Must there be loud voices, and actions so rough

as to drive us home.

And what of those you love the most that cause

you grief, and pain?

Do you stand by them with a stretch of the lips or do

you start again?