It is but in the springtime of our youth,
A season in which changes so subtle.
That we can't bring forth our feelings uncouth,
Inside they stay like some kind of turtle.
Controlled we are not by the things we say,
Brought forth by our pity for seasons end.
Outlet the feeling that is inside, nay
If we have done this, our heart canst be mend.
But kept inside it would keep us away.
Outwith it must be telling your own love,
Damage that could be done but we must say.
Sometime mates are needed for a good shove
Required if I am not, but to say.
You're nothing like the darling buds of may.