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Who are you to think that you can control me

When what I think becomes reality

And what you dream remains mere fantasy?

Who are you to want so much from me?

I am not your servant or your tool.

Have you not yet learned that it is I who owns you?

You oblivious little fool, are you blind?

Here I stand, holding you over a bottomless pit

As you remain gaily suspended and clueless.

Some day you will regret your lack of regrets

And you will rue the life that you're leading.

I feed off of your moral suicide.

You are a glutton for pride and success.

While you dig your own shallow grave

I stand behind, ready to push you in.

But who am I to speak to your majesty this way?

I am your fate, and no amount of self-worth

Can soften my hard heart, colder than even yours.

Deny me you may, but here I remain, 

Unmoved and untouched by your sorry excuses

And pitiful pleas for one more chance.

So come, little sheep, I lead you, blind and feeble

To your premature but well-deserved grave.

When reality hits, it tends to hit hard.

Are you ready to make amends with me?