Under a Tree

Sitting from under this tree
I write of me.
The tragedies
And the agonies all through my life
Is as much than those facing the scythe.
What am I?
From my view,
I'm nothing more but a composer of tragedy.
For that is me;
Or at least in my mind.
I no longer search to find where I belong.
Not because I've grew strong,
But because I've grew to become the utmost damaged.
This pain is very ravaged and
Not much can help bandage these wounds.
I am doomed to rule an empty throne.
To rule with not just words,
But a poem.
As I look to my forgotten home
I see what begin to roam:
My pain and past.
But at last,
I am away.
May not be free,
But I am away;
Here,
Under this tree.