My future is sweet, if I'm whisked with a flurry, I face fastballs coming, but always in a hurry. I wait in the kitchen, or wait by the white line, Hoping for glory, perfectly divine.

I appear in a haunted house, but I am not a ghost or monster. You might see me in neglected areas and trees.

It holds you up, and weigh you down, Its the reason you're not a puddle, or totally round. A hidden factory, plasma's it's child: supporting all your actions, be them lawful, or wild.

I make one's eyes better, but I do not make blind sighted. People often crunch and munch on me.

I make the same face as you, but I am not made of the same stuff as you. You might see me in front of you.