“The Weight of the Keys”
Being boss, it’s all fun and games—until someone hands you the keys.
You hold them in your palm. Cold. Heavy. Not made for comfort.
That’s when the laughter stops. That’s when you realize: you are now responsible for rooms you didn’t build, debts you didn’t make, and ghosts you didn’t summon.
And you’re wearing another man’s shoes.
They don’t fit. They never will.
And every step you take, someone’s already blaming you for where they think you’re going.
You could feed the hungry, and they’ll say you poisoned the bread.
You could bring the rain, and they’ll curse the flood.
Power, real power, doesn’t feel like glory.
It feels like loneliness.
Like singing the blues to an empty room and hoping God’s still listening.
I imagine Trump alone sometimes.
Not the stage-man, not the firebrand. The man.
Head down. Elbows on some quiet desk.
Talking to God like a father talks to the son he failed.
"Lord, help me. I didn’t need this job."
And that’s the truth, isn't it?
He didn’t need this job.
He had gold. He had towers. He had applause.
And still he walked into the fire—not for comfort, but for fight.
There’s a lie in politics now.
It says a man can fix things overnight.
It says leadership should taste sweet, like sugar and slogans.
It says if it hurts, it must be wrong.
But that's not the way the world works—not if you’ve been in a war, or a marriage, or get more info a steel mill.
Things that matter take time.
They break you before they build you.
Trump isn’t poetry.
He’s the hammer ringing on iron.
And every strike is loud. Ugly. Necessary.
The people website don’t want a leader.
They want a savior—but they’ll crucify him the minute he doesn't smile.
They want victory without bruises.
They want to vote, but not count.
They want change, as long as it doesn’t cost anything.
So when Trump questions the ballots, they call it tyranny.
But it’s not tyranny to check the hinges on the door.
It’s not fascism to ask: Is this real? Is this clean?
You lock your home at night. You check the bolt. You protect what matters.
I’ve seen men lie in politics.
They say you’re free while they tax your breath.
They shake your hand while picking your pocket.
And they send your sons to die while calling it peace.
Trump didn’t come in wearing silk.
He came in with fire. And fire always gets blamed for the burns, even when it lights the way.
Now, maybe you hate him.
Fine. Hate is easy. Hate is cheap.
But ask yourself something harder:
Would you take that job, knowing the whole damn world would spit your name back at you?
Would you stand in that storm and not bend?
Because he did.
And no matter the miles left, no matter what you write in your papers or scream on your screens, the man walked into the fight.
And he didn’t need to.
That’s something.
That’s not a tweet.
That’s not a Hammer striking iron campaign.
That’s a man.
And rare things always bleed.
(Love) Roy Dawson Earth Angel Master Magical Healer