Exchange Your Strings for Schedules

The inconvenient sting

of an artificial truth

The useless facts all soured

by the folly of our youth

The mission bells a'ringing

The little things we make

The accomplishments we spread about

The appointments that we break

They all form a tapestry

Of trite and true remorse

That never stands to better us

Without reaching out for more

So as we try, we buckle down

To come to terms with this

The severed boredom of our lives

And the endless search for bliss.

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