My World: Quest For The Throne

Fallen King with a Deck of Cards

Was at the bottom for a bit and times were tough as a kid with nothing to be had except the desire to quit,
Learnt to be comfortable with what I've got,
Had to learn to be comfortable in my spot,

But the he that I am was only ever 50% comfortable,
50% has been constantly following a dream since he was thirteen and had to hold onto it tight to not ever let it slip because every time he writes he feels like he's pippin' and then he leaves and feels like he's slipping in and out of a life that's reasonably unreasonable into an abyss where the exit is not entirely unfeasable but there's no map to guide the lonely loner longing for freedom from his cell of his self in a trapped cage as he's trying to pour his heart out onto the empty cracked page,

Nothing much changed from childhood to the present besides the fact that he's presently more confident in the fact that he's not sure why he's so damn insecure and nervous with anxiety and he sometimes prays with false piety hoping for enlightenment to enlighten him or me — the whole view of the person is subjective to the topic typically talked about in secret circles of self doubt that offers doubtful advice doubtfully as if the adjective itself can't state the relevance of its own mock benelovance so there's no clear relevancy because the reflection of the dark disheveled devel is only really relevant to me,

See the dark rings as bags under his eyes — evidence of the sleep he lacks — and maybe save him or help him save himself before the fragile bottle he hides in cracks and unleashes his storm that is writing born from passion and stylised to his specific fashion,
Fashioning words to rhymes and those to lines with the phrases he chose to covet and convert to his arsenal of half remembered ammunition for protection of his position on an empty throne that he sits upon questioning his ambition.