Childhood is a gift,

But it can no longer be called the present.

It is a distant memory

That has been submersed in

Never-ending work.

My hand aches in pain as it continues to write,

Every last drop of thought oozing from the pen.

Time where have you gone?

Why at this moment have I forgotten you?

Time that has pushed me farther and farther away

from my moments of happiness

I look now to the future,

I can see how bright it has become,

But I still wish for the past to be different.

To experience a greater happiness

Much greater than it once was.

Childhood is a gift,

But it can no longer be called the present

 It is a distant memory

That has been enveloped by the light of the future.