Passive, I am, in my own right,
I obsess on nicety with all my might,
Rarely ever, I put on a fight,
And, others in picture, I never slight.
Days, in spite aren’t all bright,
From the grind, not a respite,
Flagged every day are frights,
Scaling the unattainable heights.
In search of joy and delight,
Of soaring in skies like a kite,
Utopian world with no spite,
Beginning to look a lot like trite.