What Doesn't Make Me Tick?

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What really makes me tick?

Dealing with routine, bogus shtick.

Understanding this requires more than the gist.

Nothing slick, nothing missed, just the worst possibe itch.

It's the thought of wasted effort; the system's rigged for me to fail.

Countless scholarships applied, only more ads in the email.

The whole business seems fake, same strategy as retail,

Yet I'll try and I'll try til I'm old and frail.

It hurts me to know that there's those who succeed.

What did I fail to read, that he used to achieve?

I still eat, and I sleep, and I write til I bleed.

Exaggerations I know, but that just what it seems.

Affording college affords me a future,

Yet, constant disappoint opens a wound too big for any suture.

Thus, gone are the days I'm appealled to the lucre,

Of scholarship opprtunities matched by my suitor.

Desperation is all I need to rise to the task,

Regardless of what I'm used to; I never mean to be brash.

What you look for is drive, all I look for is cash.

One grand gets me closer to twenty-five, but time is running out fast.

No one's ticking, but me, cause everybody else already has it.

But nothing in this life is free, so I'll type like a rabbit.

Failure lurks after me, but fighting is my number one habit.

I signed another check for my future, maybe this time I can cash it.

 

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