What is it we are actually doing?
So caught up in life, we forget we live-
Until the moment of death,
Only to look back with resentment and regret.
So short our lives, on which we have no control,
yet we screw up every moment of it,
In pursuit of happiness;
Happiness not from within but substitutes so temporary,
We make them our life and cling on forever.
Everything takes a backseat including life,
In this race for a name,
Our own name at risk of obliteration.
So fast we are running, scared to stop,
Fear life might catch up...
Only to die one day, alone,
Without a loved one to shed a tear.
For never had we time for anyone, loved or not.
What a life we lead- that of death?
Or does death have a better life?

-Prats