Live every day as if it were your last;
Your todays turn into tomorrows,
Becoming a matter of the past.
Life writes with an unseeable hand,
Leaving an indelible impression
On those we pass.
Our desires, hopes, and dreams,
Formulated in youth,
Vanish, like a vapor, into the night.
We, who were once pliable,
Like clay in the hands of its master,
Before the strong winds of life,
Brought us to our knees,
Reshaping, molding, breaking
Like the tender branches on
On delicate trees.
We too soon are altered,
Shaped and bent by time,
Crippled by discouragement;
Each day I lay on my bed of ‘what ifs’;
My pillow: the pillow of regrets
I am broken.