Every week on sunday I become a king, forget that the world is an institution and the stress it brings.
Every week on sunday, it's not like everyday,
Where I have to be average just to fit and play.

I remember growing up, my big sister called Bella, she is a beaut, everything from her smile to her clothing were steller. Other kids from the neighborhood had sisters too, but mine was greater.

She used to sing every sunday, as I woke up felt like it was heaven, Sweet symphony, good old melody.
She had the pros to it, added a little soprano just so she could kill it, I was like five, but then I knew it was her music I needed to survive.

She used to sing about subtle love, then she'd use the cooking spoon as her microphone
I was in awe, how can someone be so beautiful and talented just on her own?
But then one dark day.
That letter to Med school, that dammed letter.
Switching towns like a  freaking  refugee, cut off from my sister's concerts we were double singing like it's telepathy. Now I was gone, she had to move on

So the baffled king had to compose on his own
Make up stories in his head and hope they'd sell
But truthfully he had to compose, to draw a picture of his depression, to understand where his heart became sad, why his smile turned into a  frown

He didn't understand why he couldn't compose in a happy mood, well "my sister used to do it too" or maybe my sister was too good- in hiding her depression. I was only five, how could I have known. Five year olds love the sun and think it's the face of God.

Re-write memories, cause now I was away through the lands and seas,
Cause now I wasnt five, I had skeletons to hide
I had questions as to why, some had  answers and some you just can't try.

I had battles, I was a king after all, my dreams were nightmares full of dragons.
I had fights, I was a king afterall, my body wanted this but I sure as death wanted that.

But maybe I'll spend the rest of my life, trying to be five years old again.
My sister now has her own five year old baby to sing to, maybe I need to grow up
Find my own five year old to sing to.
I am a baffled king composing.
I am the story of the five year old who didn't grow up.

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