Crown Of Pests
The air is filled with tension and dead flower stems.
You plucked them all to make the crown that sits upon your head.
Then you proclaimed yourself the king without a second guess.
And executed all those who dared to detest.
You even executed your most favorite guest.
All just so that you could be the best.
You don't hear the whispers behind your back,
Saying you’re but a pest.