You fancy yourself a king.

I think you would prefer

to be a magical god.

But there is no magic

and no wonder

in what you do.

The truth is

You are of the lowest form.

A loathsome back door man.

The one to be shot on sight.

A cowardly mongrel

skulking by the hen house door.

Who’ll surely move on to the next.

We are cut

from the same wretched cloth…

sullied by shame

and by fear

With absolutely no idea

what love really is

That word we used

recklessly, and

with only casual reverence.

Every moment we’ve shared

and now

every moment I spend alone

thinking about you…

Is fruit from a poisonous tree

Binding us yet.


Accessories to greater villainy.

Take a look at yourself

In your paper crown

With your feet of clay

Lodged in the detritus

of your own decay.

Keep doing what you’re doing

if it works for you.

But unhand me

Release me from your grasp

Let me scrub your stain

from my skin.

I can’t stay.

Every day

I feel my spirit leech away

If you are a king…

I leave you to reign

Certainly ever after

as the king of pain.