Passion seemed to die,
in the corridors of broken dreams,
that once shone with the power of a thousand suns,
and now sit, burnt-out, smoldering.

That’s the way life is,
for some people, who have trouble getting out of bed,
because there life has fallen apart at the seams,
and help is an echoing voice in the distance,
down one out of a series of darkened, degraded hallways.

A phantom hope wanders aimlessly,
on your better days you can almost feel it,
and on your worst it’s a shameful reminder of your potential,
imagine what you could have been,
if you only tried.

Imagine all of the burnt-out people,
who had ambition, and hope deep inside of their hearts,
but ran face-first into a cold wall of despair named reality,
where motivation is a one-man band playing on your own street corner,
collecting the right amount of change to eat sometimes,
but never enough to keep on living.

That’s when potential died,
in the gutters with change,
where reality swallowed it whole,
and motivation became a foreign dream.