I tend to notice things,
But never point them out,
Such as the littlest hints of spring,
Before the flowers even sprout!
Nobody sees it,
But deep down inside,
I don't see them one bit,
Even if I tried,
I get a feeling from in me,
A tickle in the bones,
And I look up and watch the blue sea,
I hear little tones,
These tones are deceiving,
Because I'm not sure what they mean,
But it causes a feeling,
An enigma of life again is what it seems
(I have no idea what to write about that's why my poems aren't so great sorry)
