The Fleeting Gift of Time

With one step through the door, out into the escape of stress, and uncertainty, 

My inner self jumps back with fear, and dread. Then I'm caught between the past and future, painfully unsure of where to go, or what to do. It may be called the present, but it doesn't feel like a gift. What's a gift that leaves you on a momentary basis, and replaces itself with a new, not always improved version. We have a subscription to time. We pay with our breaths, and each moment that passes, we're sent a new, untouched one. One day however, we won't be able to pay for a new moment. The breaths will stop, and payments will stop with it. And if so quickly depleting are our funds for life, why are we wasting them cursing into the night. We scream, which wastes breath, we complain, which wastes breath, we speak dirty, harsh words, which wastes breath. We should be laughing, and singing, saying wonderful things, or not speaking at all and just listening. Each breath brings you closer to the inevitable future, that one day the lungs and bank accounts will be dry. And your mouth will be dry. And you will only have what you once did, and you will only ever be who you once were. So when you run out. When you run out of everything you have to give, what's going to be your final form? Throwing away moments, and wasting time, or embracing every inhale and exhale, and saying kind things toward the light. Time is running out. And breaths are getting slow. Get it out. Use it up. Don't leave without being empty. One more future passes. Now you're empty, and you're only what your breaths made you. And soon, you'll only be what you made your breaths. I'm sorry for hating, and cursing, and screaming my head off. I regret every word I said with wicked intentions. But the future was given to me, and I didn't then realize what it was, and how special it was. I didn't know I would never get it back. I wasn't aware it would leave me, and stain me red. I want it back. That's all I want. One extra future to reverse a million breaths. One extra inhale to have an exhale worthy of being used. Please forgive me for being foolish. Please forgive me for not knowing what I had. No one knows what they have. And some come to know, but it's always after its gone. We're all foolish, being more concerned counting our breaths pass, then using them in the wisest way. We float from one to the next, and allow the in between to die without a burial. We ignore the middle, we subside the substance. We fly from check point to check point, and we forget about the journey. I wish I had appreciated the journey. No extra air. And no extra time. Use what you have while you can, or else you'll be fossilized in time. Time doesn't care about regrets, or about miss opportunities. Times only there to help you move on. Well stop. Stop! I refuse to go on! I'm using each moment. And I'm not being controlled by what is merely an idea. Time is just a reference point for stories. And I'm not done writing my story. I have been given a raise. I have found a twenty on the ground, and now I can pay my bills. I walk fully through the door, leaving behind the stress, pain, and regrets, but bring the memories, growth, and knowledge so that from this payment forward I will manage it the right way. Now I do not survive only at red lights, but I have parked the car, gotten out, and thrown away the keys. Now I walk and smell the roses and take in the breeze.One day my lungs will go and look for the checks, and they'll find that they're empty, and then I'll be at peace, knowing I used them all to their maximum capacity

This poem is about: 
Me
My country
Our world

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