As I heed the rising sun each morning, I say goodbye to yet another day. With average thoughts, and midnight aughts, I always wonder when shall be the very last sight for me to see. With the constant flow of what we call time, age never seems to cease its incline.
How we perceive is quite desolate at times. We tend to take advantage of all the small and precious moments that pass by our heads, soon to be forgotten by the time we're in our beds.
But we never pause in thought to wonder why we hadn't cherished those few seconds more; we never think about such a thing until it's fated to be far too late.
If only we could have realized sooner.
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Unprofessional Poems
PoetryJust poems that were written by a teenager who does really know what she's doing. Please read. I promise they're not terrible- just unprofessional, and sometimes kind of angsty.
