Byronic Mess

I liken myself to Jesus,

But I have never been that selfless.

The weight on my shoulders is my cross,

My body; my sentence.

I just wanted to be king,

But my body was built for a queen.

It’s a cell and an execution notice all in one.

I am a son of God in the purest form,

In which I have been left to die for daring to be human.

My skin burns as I stand on my pyre,

Begging for God to fix me, to absolve me.

All I get is silence.

My body is still my body,

and I am still no more of a king than I was before.