I'm dreaming about being the king of many of my enemy's.
But I doubt someone can even be their king, because why would someone want to be responsible for their stupidity.

eyes devour tasteless words
sprung up from the depths
conniving little snitches
Her nails twist and twitch
dripping in, with disgust
sipping on the attics secrets
                   it leaks
      and
                   it reeks
She sits like a falling queen
bordered with flaking fake gold
the lips crumbling dry
She had no tone left
caked in old skin
many Women scream 'poor Her'

the  paranoid  King                                    the  adama­nt  Rook
the   soulless  tyrant                                   icon  of   bloodshed
an  empire build on                                    build  on  the  ivory
fright   and  despair                                    fragments of  death  
                                    the   vacant  Knight  
                                    servant   of   demise
                                    the  bearer   of   fate
                                    bound  to the  night
the virulent  Queen                                    the  twisted  ­Bishop
daughter   of  doom                                    preacher   of   battle
the   graceful  terror                                    true worshipper  of    
clad   in  gilt  debris                                    the  god of  carnage

Solitude is the strength of separation.
The separation of self, from others, from all.
Within the crowds and between loneliness,
Solitude is power personified.

Solitude walks the streets in indifference,
Passerby’s smile or stare, no care.
The vacuum of isolation’s stronghold,
Breathes confidence, exhales ticking time.

Solitude is the mask of many,
And the face of few.

Solitude is the liar’s crutch,
And the King’s crown.

Be wary of Solitude, its power is profound.

Anyone with a stroke of luck
can be a king or queen on earth!
Why there can’t be a lucky paradise?

Dressed in steel,
Spear in hand,
The general conquers in four directions.

Dressed in law,
Brush in hand,
The minister governs all ranks of men.

Dressed in Gold,
Wine in hand,
The Emperor watches as his empire grow.

For ten long years, a brush in hand,
Its ink stained bristles, as yet, untried.
Today, I hold It before the court of kings;
For all I seek is recognition and ink.