I once believed that life was a gift.
I thought whatever I wanted I would someday posses;
is that greed or youth?
Is it hope or stupidity?
As far as I was concerned, the future was a book;
I could write it to suit myself,
Chapter after chapter of good fortune.
All was right with the world,
My place in it was assured, or so I thought.
I had know Idea that all stories unfold like white flowers,
Petal after petal,
Each in its own time and season,
depending on the circumstances and fate.
The future it something no one and for tell.
THIS IS HOW I ROLL!!! xp
Poetic-Sleep Community Member 
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