A letter; from me, to you, to me

Throw it to the wall and hope it sticks. 

But each time, it repels and I’m sick. 

Each time, I am pained by what I have picked. 

Lord, why have you blessed me with this gift?

In my hands, a burden heavy and thick -

I fear what comes and it’s ability to fit.

But maybe, it’s not for me to discuss. 

The future is mine, but for me it is occult. 

To place the puzzle pieces in a line from end to front - 

As if I’m the manufacturer of this game of luck.

Foolish me, perhaps even selfish,

for if the wall doesn’t stick, you should know it’s never worth it.