Quarrel of Thought, Word, and Hand

How is it that this mind, So old, Must be bound to a restless soul, So young? Have I wronged Mother Nature In loving her? My addictions return every day, But am I helped, Or hindered By my ignorance for them? Is it true I may control my thoughts? Likely not, But maybe so. I'd like to draw them out, Let them slip through my tongue For the world to ponder Evermore. In most instances, I would see humanity is entertained By my eccentricities... But what of silence? Is my identity to be known Only for what I say? Truly, I do not do Enough. If it is so That my actions speak louder than words, Why ought I speak? Perhaps my thoughts Are undone deeds, Awaiting their execution. Do not let me speak my mind, For I am lacking eloquence in the matter. Let me show you.