im starting to make poems, so here is one of the first.

Flowers.

You start off as a seed.
So small in such a big world.
Then you start to grow, and grow, and grow.
Then you start to bloom, and bloom, and bloom.
Becoming more beautiful each passing day.
You become so lovely, shining in the bright sun, and radiant in the moons gaze.
Now fully blossomed, you flow in the wind, still as charming as ever.
Many love staring at you, some are conflicted as to pick you or not.
Bees come to you for honey, as you are in your prime.

But..

You start to wither, and wither, and wither.
People pass by with no second thought.
The bees choose other flowers.
As you see some kids come running, your time has come.
Oh well, you were better before.