A Young King

Done hyperventilating over long-dead flowers,

Done praying for lost people in the darkest of hours.

My quill is sharp yet my words sound meek.

The daylight is a river, my reality is a creek.

One sneaker in mud, one step closer to my roots.

My blood is merciless, do not expect any fruits.

But I still sneak out in the cold, harmful dawn.

Done panicking over cruel butlers and pawns.

I do not feel like a young king climbing the fences,

I do not feel home while gathering expenses.

My words are cutting yet my reasons are too weak.

The daylight is a river, my reality is a creek.