Birds of a Feather

I once told my father
That boredom was killing me.
He replied, in his usual manner :
"Suffering is part of our identity."

According to him
And the rest of society,
We must be ready to swim
In a comfortable misery.

Day by day, I would complain
And he would give that one reply :
"Same."
Before telling another lie.

How cruel is it ?
To be born in a world of infinite choices,
And be forced to choose a single one
Before enduring the consequences.

Why can't I do it all ?
Why can't I bake, paint and draw
All the while, ignoring my role
As the snake to this world's apple ?

Perhaps, there is nothing I can do.
Perhaps, I am a bother to everyone.
Should I accept it as true 
And water myself down ?