time's flying

It may be pretty or terrible, and it can mean a lot or be futile; yours to judge

I have the bad habit of forgetting things
Faces, names, birthdays
The due date of a paper
The train of my thoughts, even
And the flying time
Is making me feel guilty about it
But then I remember:
None of these things matters
As long as I can remind myself of where I came from,
And where I'm heading to









Note:
1/ is this be counted as poetry ? I'm wondering, / never thought of me as a poet, sounds bizarre
2/ I'm not a native english speaker, it would be very kind of you to tell me if something put in word in a weird way or else...