Despair of a furtive root,
I try to keep the time at bay;
My ambition is rendered moot
And I begin to dread the day

And though I know it seems inane
My reality lives in dreams,
While my life is but a dream-I feign,
Since my life is faulty-it seems

Lost somewhere between hate and love,
apathy versus ambition
And the desire thereof,
Must I imitate affection?

Is love found? Or is it produced?
Is purpose found? Or is it set?
Is zeal found? Or is it induced?
Someone who knows I have not met.

I sought and searched for something new
But found and obtained something old,
I try and try to start anew
Instead I find I grow more cold

Our lives are fleeting and bitter,
I cannot seem to find content.
Through love and hate do I flitter
So I shall remain despondent...