He wasn’t born into gold.
No silver cradle, no velvet-lined destiny,
no prophecy sealed with wax and a surname.
He learned royalty in the slow grind—
mud on his boots,
scrapes on his knuckles,
a mirror cracked from too many
honest reflections.
They don’t see the throne
he’s building from busted chairs,
the scepter forged from a crowbar and intent.
He doesn’t wear a crown yet,
but he sharpens the thought of one,
fingertips tracing its edges in the dark,
turning rust into something that might shine.
They called him reckless.
Too soft.
Too angry.
Too much of something
and not enough of everything else.
But he kept showing up.
That’s what they miss—
royalty is in the repetition.
In lacing up when your soul’s in splinters.
In saying, “I’m here,”
when you’ve got every reason to vanish.
In offering your name like a shield
to the ones who never learned
they deserved protection.
The world is slow to notice
the boy who bends but doesn’t break.
Slow to recognize the weight of a name
carved into the bones of the world
that doubted him.
But one day, they’ll wonder
how they missed him coming.
And when he sits,
he won’t need a parade.
The throne will tremble—
and that will be enough.
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