Every moment of pleasure and pain, of love and hate, Is a numbered component of a fluid and limited time frame Within which we are allotted a finite number of life's experiences. Upon our death they will end, As will every opportunity to share our hearts, To resolve conflict and make amends, To cherish life and be happy, And to bring to fruition every aspiration Tucked safely away in a file marked 'someday'. There are turbulent times And moments of smooth sailing and placidity. If you do not take advantage of its passing, You will travel nowhere. No matter how hard you fight the current, You will eventually be swept away.
Love is the home, Friendship is the key.
One must pick and choose one's battles in life Or risk living in many emotional foxholes. It is gifts such as these, flowing free from the heart, That give more to the soul than anything from the hand Or the realm of good intentions. One's true character and identity Cannot be defined by any singular facet of one's life, Such as work or social status, For the sum total must include one's actions and reactions Under all circumstances and in any company. And then, when struck in the face by the result of poor judgment, We so easily jump on the defensive or attempt to share the blame As a means for justifying our lack of proactive foresight. Or at the very least like stale food, Distasteful and hard to swallow.