Pressed For Time

Coping with the constant need to be productive
And the lack of time to breathe,
I felt the attraction of distraction
Pulling me with ease,
So I stopped to smell the roses,
But they only made me sneeze,
And the petals flew away
In the sweet summer breeze.
They landed in your hand
And you pressed them in a book.
You said you'd show me some day
But I still haven't had a look.

Why are you hiding my pretty little moments
Of carefree deciding and fleeting innocence?
The more that I know,
The less I am free,
For knowledge brings wisdom,
But its price is captivity.

Now, replacing a guilt-ridden conscience
With an uninhibited mind
Is as hard as finding a needle
On a porcupine.

Minutes slip through my fingers.
Not one of them lingers
For more
than
s
i
x
t
y
seconds.
I cannot grasp them,
Nor barely recall
What happened in those seconds at all.

No time like the Present, yet-
No present like Time.
::Ever fleeting::
::Ever lost::
My heart is beating at such a cost.

So what do I do then?
Do I work myself to the bone?
Is success measured by money
And the things that we own?
Is it inherent in discipline,
Or the acquisition of power,
Or is it simply finding the time
To appreciate a flower?

Irreplaceable gift bestowed on all;
Use it wisely while you can.
The past expands with every second:
Moments gathered with an indifferent hand.