Busy lives in turmoil,
carrying a shotgun in their hands
shootin’ their dreams and killing hope
Heads in a muddle,
tied in knots and addled
holy mess not meant to unravel
Lonely hearts,
on the shelves of their superego,
older but not wiser
more wretched than a minute ago
less serene than yesterday
always nagging
So ungrateful and hubristic
a scuttle to the finish line
leading to a schizophrenic cul-de-sac
of human endeavor.

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