He was a tiny child, of only eight, and he worked all day. Cleaning the dishes, mopping the floors, mowing the lawn, and even cooking for four. He never knew any love, only learnt what he did from afar; and even then it wasn't much at all. Spoiled and rotten, his cousin was, though taught to act as pure and white as cotton.
He was a tiny child, of only eleven, and he knew only hate. Hate from the professor who did him no good, hate for the man who took his family, and hate for himself for being such a problem. Its all my fault his mind would say, dizzy from having pounded all day. He smiles with friends, just pretending he's okay.
He was a tiny child, of only fifteen, and he couldn't take this, life he means. His godfather taken, secrets kept, and a frighting fight is why he wept. It's all my fault that things are this way. He never wanted to see another day.
He was a tiny child, of only seventeen, the lives of many is what made him grind his teeth. 'The Saviour' 'The King' 'The Boy Who Lived To See His Teens'. On the run, what can he do? Plot and destroy, 'til he knew what was due. Live up to his names, live up to his fame. Kill the man who laughed in vain. Kill the monster who murdered for game. Save the world from his terrible regime.
He was a tiny man, of only thirty-eight, and he decided to stop, living he says. Enough is enough and his day had came. He chucked down the knife and bit back the pain, today was the day, and no one, no one would ever be the same.