By Sadie York
Content is often mistaken for sufficiency,
Despite being far from similar.
Many accept what is given to them,
But find themselves craving more,
Longing for better.
Content is desired by many,
But only acquired by few,
By those who indulge in what life has to offer.
The present finds itself disregarded
And for what?
An idealistic future.
While focused on what could happen,
Time passes by.
Dust collects on the books you told yourself you’d read,
The birds outside collect twigs for their nests,
Blossoms bloom into flowers.
Mistakes may be made,
But the sun will rise and fall just the same,
And leaves will turn from green to orange.
The trees are swaying,
Can you hear them?
The waves are breaking,
Do you feel the mist?
That faint smell,
Reminiscent of concrete on a rainy day.
Do you recognize it?
In the blink of an eye,
Defining moments will occur.
Life is constantly moving around you,
And once you notice the small things
It becomes far more remarkable.