King

With pen in hand, I take a stand, the king of verse, the wordsmith grand.

They call me arrogant, perhaps it's true,

But none can spin a rhyme like me it's in plain view.

I see emotions, raw and bright, and weave them into threads of light.

Love's sweet whispers, sorrow's sting, on inky wings, my verses sing.

From battle cries to whispers meek, I paint a picture, and emotions speak.

While lesser bards in riddles speak, my lines are clear, the message sleek.

They struggle with their metaphors, their similes a crashing bore.

But mine, they dance a graceful flight, metaphors that take you to the night.

They search for rhymes, a frantic chase, while mine flow freely, full of grace.

I build suspense, then let it break, let emotions rise, for goodness sake!

I scoff at sonnets, tired and worn, a bygone era, tattered, torn.

I craft new and vibrant beats, my verses that make you tap and move your feet.

So let them scowl and shake their fist at my talent. Like a star, I will persist.