In all endeavors I seem to find
There is an eternal internal bind
Of which I create and then I crave
From which I cannot hope to escape

From where does fulfillment originate?
Is it not enough to live without hate?
Can anything be done without regret?
What sort of constant is this threat?

Leaving a room though physical action
Cannot be done without wishing for retraction
I should have said that, I should have done this
Does the right sequence of events even exist?

Why must the choices I make contradict
Every last desire and every last wish
That I ever formulate inside my mind?
It seems that this struggle is one of a kind

I don't know how to really be sure
Or definitely good, positively pure
Will I ever do something and say it's right?
Tantalizing me are my endless lost fights