How is it for me to say,
What may happen on this day?

Is it not up to the muse
Or perhaps best left to the fates,
Who with my destiny pick and choose?

I have always asked myself why
It is up to the man who hides in the sky.

Can I not decide?

I find myself often staring at the river
I cannot say what men shall do
Or when the moon should be a sliver

Yet sometimes I think,
When I write, don't I control the ink?

Can't I choose what to say?
And what might happen on this day?

Why is it up to the man in the sky,
To say who may live and who must die?

I am in charge of my self.
I will not allow hi to put me up upon a shelf
Like some long forgotten toy

So now it is for me to say,
What shall happen on this day.