White light crackles along my skin,
So bright and hot it turns pink black,
Searing, burning, drawing blood the scars weep,
But this is the price I pay for my crown.
No gold has been spun or crafted,
Nor either has any silver been banded,
Wrapped like a web around a myriad of jewels,
That is the crown sought only by fools.
My own is different, distinct and unique,
It is my own and my own I shall keep,
It hurts me and harms me,
But it too is what makes me more Conner than you.
A hundred memories I remember,
A million more I cannot,
A hundred thousand different thoughts,
The imagination that crafts my books,
Every pound of fat that’s changed my looks,
All of them are within my crown of white light.
Heavy is the head that wears the crown,
So they say,
But stronger must the soul be that bears,
A billion whispering tales of theirs,
That haunt and hurt and lift and soar,
For words, when they’re said, aren’t yours anymore.
Now they rest within my crown,
The white light that’s so heavy it burrows my frown,
But every slight,
Every dark and scary night,
Only bolsters my crowns might,
And add more bright to its white light.
You might want my crown,
Perhaps you do not,
But if you can see it you know it’s mine,
The whole lot,
And if you can not,
Then why do you care a jot?
If I write about my crown,
When your own,