For The Son Of Something

This is the hidden exsistence of a broken man
Fascinated by death and his unfulfilled plan
To course the weak into unsuspecting fear
Striving for happiness in his suicidal ideals

And what If he was too scared to speak?
Wait for his birthday to come in a week?
What could the king of nothing do?
Make his final breath and start a new

Certain of nothing but the end is a constant
Call it a tragic ending or a sorrow filled detriment
None the less you're a slave to his resolution
Attracted to the whim of an absolute solution

Through every sunrise his face will permeate
A living dream that's left up to a defeatists debate
The king of nothing but it means all the same
Take what's rightfully yours and we'll see who's to blame