The Center

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I walk a path that’s mine alone,
A throne of wants, a heart of stone.
The world, it spins around my name,
And others play a fleeting game.

Your needs are whispers in the air,
Mine roar like fire—bold, unfair.
I take, I claim, I push, I pull,
Empathy? A concept dull.

Your praise is never quite enough,
My light is bright, your glow is bluff.
I talk, you listen—such is fate,
I lead, I rule, I dominate.

Critique me once, I strike with fire,
Your words mean less than my desire.
Anger flares when I don’t win,
As if your doubt’s some kind of sin.

I build myself from borrowed gold,
And shine in stories I’ve retold.
The mirror loves the face it sees,
And bows beneath my self-made breeze.

So call me proud or say I’m blind,
But I was never made to mind
The quiet needs of those like you—
The world feels right from my own view.

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