Building that once taught, and educated you,
that made you a man, made you 'King for day'
Jester for life. Trapped in a circle filled with
equations of success, secrets of aspirations
beyond your grasp. I hope the throne was
worth it all.
You remember the days you
painted outside the lines,
to escape montony of it all,
a quick stroke there, a dab
all around, the time was
short the notice was worthless.
Like a bent fork you stood out.
Useless.
Painting by numbers a complete
routine, death by ostacization
your mistake.
