Yet another poem

The king is dead

Once apon a time, he walked the streets a king
Happy,proud
safe and sound
Life was a joy
His home was his heart
He loved so much
No hatred in his thoughts
He was happy in his home
He was living his dream

Now life’s got him down
Chained through his knees
No turning back
He’s to tied to this place

Stuck
Roaming the same streets
No crown on his head;
The king is dead

Responsibilities like cement to his back
Never ending nights and no one’s up late
The world he once loved
Have turned him it’s back
The days are the same

Through his eyes everything is blunt and gray
He died the day
He picked up the bottle in grief;
Realizing the world in wich he live
Is no longer his
Stuck
Roaming the same streets
No crown on his head;
The king is dead
Sitting down, he smokes another cigarette
Smoke fills his lungs
Hate fills his heart
Rage fills his bones
Sorrow fills his soul
Caged here he sits
All his friends has gone
The world he once knew has been ripped apart

They killed his happy home
Yea, their the once at blame
When he was young he wished for things to never change
So much anger
It fills him up from under his skin
Takes to much strength to face the emptiness he’s in

His hatred was like a cancer
That grew by the day
It turned on himself

He tore his own empire down;

Ladies and gentlemen

No crown on his head;
The king is dead