Heart of a slave, blood of a King
He's seen it all so you can't tell him a thing
Purple heart like Prince you can't stop the reign
And it wasn't until he left that you realized he came
But now he has changed, potential fulfilled
Ego's been killed, hurt healed, fake finally turned real
Truth reveled about the deep waters that were still
Yet and still he's still the blue steel selected for the kill
Everyone looking wondering who is he
The artist beyond the art
Who scared his heart so beautifully
That they filled that void with a spark
Wondering where did it start
When did reality jump on stupidity's cart
When did the lick become the mark?
What's the price paid to play his part?
About the Creator
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Nice work
Very well written. Keep up the good work!
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Compelling and original writing
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More stories from Steven Hawkins and writers in Poets and other communities.
Rent Free
I see it all, all laid out like a path I must be calculated because I can see the math Aggravated because I'm clearly mad Unapologetically me is not necessarily bad Being unique helps you see then you're a visionary Now they celebrate at first what they thought was scary The winds of change blow and the flow disturbs the eddy You can still catch the wave though no matter how temporarily Now you're a non-profit prophet for profit Thought you had it when you got it but lost it and dropped it Fumbled it, flopped it, aborted it like it was adopted Full stopped it, only problem is you never forgot it Seeing signs of signs of the times by design Come on back to the source, of course I'll be benign Only when they press charges is stealing a crime But we're even from the free rent I get in your mind
By Steven Hawkins4 years ago in Poets
Trouble at the Tea Leafing Café
The rain had started right around the time that Annie was buttering her second thick slice of homemade toast for breakfast, and hadn’t paused since. Not that anyone could tell. The windows of the café were fogged over, and with every seat filled with happy customers munching on fresh baked pastries or steaming bowls of the delicious soup of the day, it was hardly surprising. Annie looked around the room, finally taking a moment to breathe after the lunch time rush. Her old life already felt like a bad memory, a part of her history, always, but just that. History.
By Hannah Moore6 days ago in Fiction
Comments (1)
Super cool poem! I love the first two lines. They tell a magnificent story all on their own