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Poem

I, the son of kings and queens,
raised in riches and born with wings,
told of worlds made of dreams,
woke to find I’m robbed by thieves.

They made sure my eyes have seen,
where others before me have been.
Grew shielded, crippled at the knees,
no longer able to fly, or flee.

They expect me to settle for less.
The mantra that I am blessed.
Though I’m stressed, my brain, confessed,
I’ll never be at peace.

Perhaps it’s greed, I am the king of,
though, I have nothing, think love, nothing.
Routines of looking above,
my feet beneath the Earth, my head fly.

I’ve been told to dream, look to the sky,
lived to realize it’s all just a lie,
told to a child, to make him not cry,
for the noise gets in the way of their lives.

Now, I’m a charity, for they’re all too big for my eyes.
I, a boy, who stupidly still wakes and tries.
I’d rather live in dirt than fly,
if I carry bloated egos, up high.

No longer carrying broken souls, but mine,
no longer in need of another to shine.
They had a chance to see the divine,
but the temptations of sin, too hard to deny.

Perhaps my pride, my ego, bigger than theirs,
a stance to prove, I never ache.
Although, I am the one, who always takes,
my hand only reaches for things that never break.

Though I am the heaviest of weights,
no longer need they carry, although it’s too late.
While they all swim in stories of fate,
I alone, can find the gate.

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