They called me a king,
back when I was still nothing.
I knew they saw something,
but I just couldn't bear knowing...
that I would never be a delicate
instrument. Such as words said,
uttered, written down on a piece,
a piece of paper. Carved from a tree.
Moulded to be fragile and both, free.
Forbidden to know peace...
They stripped me from everything,
when I realized water, turning,
something once mighty into nothing.
And in fire I kept burning.
The world wanted everything to do, with me...and nature allowed me to go.

A piece of paper, birthed from trees,
I am harmless and easily torn.
A poet's golden fleece,
and through their words I am reborn.

I'm a piece of paper...
once part of a tree that grew.
Now, to society I'm never worthier.
And to nature I'm a big taboo.