My life has been somewhat perfect.
I pursue things that pleases everyone around me;
But why was I never happy nor satisfied? Is it really an effect?
Of things that made me capable of achieving things my eyes can see?

I feel nothing but emptiness,
Like a matchbox without matches nor dust and spiders.
Very cynical thought for one and filled with absurdness,
I can't blame people for I'm a mere banter for others.

I don't sense my purpose, nor my passion.
What an irony for the title seen above,
Yet it is something that I'd like to figure even without caution,
A mere thrill for me for I have wings yet I'm a flightless dove.

I envy and do not, those people who know their passion,
For most can achieve and do what they desire,
Whilst others cannot so they end in what if's and aggression,
How morose for the latter but dreams can always transpire.

I am entrapped by the idea of a passion driven life,
A loony idea that is far beyond reach,
Unless dreams are sacrificed or even be in a strife,
To just taste a luscious pitch black peachy leech.