And if only I could control my heart, bend my will past free will’s start. Then maybe you’d know the pain of choice and the taxation of an honest voice.
I know not why I write or do. But my foresight tends to follow through. I am cursed with knowledge that comes regardless. And it matters not whether I profess.
I’m really tired of the tiredness, wearily wired… I must confess.
Sometimes I know I am prophetic, but these projections are oft pathetic.