I Killed the King — New Poems

Ninety-nine billion people,
 and I am the breath that fills your lungs—
 unseen, yet stitched into the fabric of your existence.
 Crafted by gods, an angel, they say,
 yet my edges are frayed by psychopathic tendencies.
 Raw emotional intelligence,
 balanced on the knife’s edge of self-control.
 Confidence teeters into arrogance,
 charisma flickers with the weight of desperation.
 The three C’s—
 and still, you forget.
 Ninety-nine billion people,
 and I am the pulse beneath your skin,
 the tremor in your fingertips,
 the cold breath on your spine.
 You praise a god,
 yet ignore my song of woe—
 the melody that pries open your ribcage,
 the words you refuse to hear.
 I was never a pawn.
 Never a placeholder.
 Not a fleeting thought cast aside,
 not a spark dying in your periphery,
 waiting to be noticed.
 I was not your backburner dream
 or the shadow you dismissed.
 I was the hand that tipped the throne.
 The whisper that cracked the crown.

 I held the blade steady,
 watched the mighty fall—
 and you still dare to ask who I am?
 Ninety-nine billion people,
 and you still call me invisible.
 I stand still,
 yet you move toward me—
 and still, you do not see.
 Alright. Ahah. Do you.
 But know this—
 I am here, woven into your every move.
 And I will not fade.
 No, I will not fade.

✓ Verified human-written