Classic Poem

I told you this,
And now you’re ill.
With sharp confusion,
And morning chill.
You’re unmoving,
But breathing still.
You’re thinking deep,
Never to spill.
The backward thought,
Of the wrong response.
I smirk through,
You’re long pause.
Until you conclude,
That you don’t know.
And I clearly state,
“I told you so.”