Poor King

At age 12 I was already labeled a troublemaker, that Piper Klaude kid. He’ll never go anywhere.
A failure in the eyes of my family because of the letters on a report that did not value me as an individual, my parents shamed me and I became the bane of their existence, their one imperfect child.
Always wondering what they did wrong.

At age 17 I left high school with a kiss on the ass and my middle finger in the air.
They didn’t own me.
They didn’t care I was just another kid who made them look bad.
An outlier who fucked up their test scores.
I am not who you think I am.

I am a poor king, dislodged from a family made of money.
A high school drop out more aware of the world and its inner workings than the politician running for office who claims “to be one of the people”.
I know more about the constructs of society than the people who major in it.
I am not who you think I am.

I have a home that is comfortable and sweet.
It welcomes me home everyday off of my weary feet.
It doesn’t matter that it might switch places everyday or even every other day.
It doesn’t matter.
It is home and I am a poor king, proud in the places I’ve lived.
I am not who you think I am.

Somehow I’m not allowed, my voice goes unheard simply because my pockets aren’t lined with greed.
I am less of a person because I don’t have money to speak for me.
I am a proud poor king.

Society does not own me.
People stare and mutter when they see me.
My matted locks and grimy appearance.
“He’s gotta be some kind of junkie or something.”

WELL FUCK YOU TOO

I chose this life; I wasn’t kicked out, forced into it.
I desired IT.
An ache in my soul for the brute reality of being a poor king.
And that is who I am.
Respected for it.
Loved for it.
Proud of it.

I am Piper Klaude, a Poor King and you won’t change anything about me.