Book of Poems

-e.h

We are waiting for tomorrow, 

But tomorrow never comes, 

Our last breath is right upon our heels,

Yet we still refuse to run, 

86,400 seconds,

And we are in another day.

All slipping through our fingers,

As we look the other way,

Days, weeks, months and years,

Are made up of right now, 

A string of fleeting moments,

That we never can pin down,

We gaze into the future,

As if its where we are meant to be,

Always planning for that day,

When we can say that we are happy

We spend so long looking forward, 

That we may as well be blind

Since we dont see until the very end,

All the things we have left behind 

Now I know it is just a theory, 

But I think I have worked out how,

The only way to happiness

Is to love what we have now.