The King Without a Kingdom

i won’t forget the pain and anger

i felt in my chest last night.

—

this was the first time

i observed my dad

with all my uncles.

they’re all rich made men.

—

and i seen him

alone often,

wandering around,

not knowing where he belonged anymore.

—

and that’s when

something hit me.

—

a king without a kingdom.

—

and for the first time

i wondered

if that was the real pain.

—

not money.

not success.

—

belonging.

—

i was seeing

the way i used to move

but through the eyes

of my father now.

—

he feels

that they switched up on him.

—

can i blame him

for feeling that?

can i get mad

at my uncles

when i understand exactly

what happens

when you go up?

—

maybe i can.

—

but the character

of my father

is different.

the ego man

is what i used to call him.

—

but i see this now

through the lens

of a bronx tale.

—

the working man.

on schedules.

on salaries.

on somebody else’s clock.

—

the rich man.

the dream chaser.

the one who bet on himself

and made it.

—

and here i am

in the middle.

feeling pain.

anger.

but also acceptance.

—

because my blood

is now in the position

where i left everyone.

—

so what can i do about it?

—

crash out?

write 700 lines

about how i’ll shit on everyone

so my dad

never feels small?

—

nah.

—

but the temptation

is there.

—

look at the outcomes

of every man

that believed in himself.

—

that’ll speak

for everything else.

—

the world is mine.

the world is yours.

—

no small rooms

for vision

that endures

the hatred

and negativity

truth disperses.

—

it’s a lonely path

for the one

who’s called king.

—

i need tribal rings

and anything

for the finest of things

when it comes to me.

—

my pops is a king.

—

i just gotta win

us four rings.


— Mr. Mak


Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

back when we were kids

back when we were kids, life was nothing but light, pavement, and laughter. longboards gliding down the trails, basketballs echoing through the evening air, music spilling out of those old ‘90s retro speakers we’d find in our parents’ basements — static, bass, and freedom. no phones glued to our hands, no pressure to post — just company. just presence. the world was wide open, and the only rule was, “come home before it gets dark.” we never cared. we always pushed it — one more ride, one more laugh, one more stretch of freedom before the world called us back. me and manvir — two kids who thought forever was real. we’d cross that broken bridge just to reach the other neighborhood, gripping the guardrails like our lives depended on it, pretending it was life or death — and in a way, it was. ’cause that’s what being a kid felt like: every small thing was everything. we didn’t know what healing was, didn’t need to. life hadn’t scarred us yet. we lived like every day was a movie we didn’t h...
Read more

lonely at the top

i know for me to climb to the top, i have to witness my idols get knocked off the mountain first. i’m only 25. my reign hasn’t begun, and i’m already measuring my fall. i remember watching from the fence— older kids running the slides the wrong way, hanging upside down from monkey bars, moving like time was endless. i waited my turn. dreamed of the day i’d finally be let outside. and when it came, the playground was empty. they didn’t lose the game. they just left it. pockets too grown. love diluted into club champagne and women— noise where meaning used to be. every day i grow, i feel this longing— to replicate this with my brothers. but then the days hit. i see them stuck in the same places, running out of patience, out of complacence. it hurts to not see them with me. maybe it wasn’t even them. maybe it’s really me that changed. damn. it wasn’t even them. it’s me that’s changed. i see myself at the pearly gates, every choice tilting the scale— one step closer to the abyss, my fallof...
Read more

one with the seasons

  i see it now — a creator releasing his second book on his 26th birthday… that’s not luck, that’s alignment. that’s your life syncing with the seasons the same way your breath syncs with your chest when you’re locked in. i’m realizing i’m getting back into that mode — that mode where my actions become one with the earth’s cycle, where every season becomes a chapter, and every chapter demands a different version of me. winter winter is the dark night. reflection. inner sharpening. the season where men disappear to become dangerous again. nights stretch longer, streets go quiet after the sun drops, and the wolves come out to feast. this is the season where i write the heaviest pieces — the ones born in silence, the ones that feel like prophecy, the ones where the page becomes a battlefield. winter is when i lock in my voice. winter is when the real work happens. spring spring is rebirth. expansion. the softening after the storm. it’s when the ideas...
Read more