(Poem based on Bruce Wayne if he never became Batman)
He sits
In the middle of the room,
Where all of
his precious
Belongings
Surround him.
He is a billionare,
Owned a company,
Easily bought
almost everything
That he wanted.
His wealth
Isolated him
From a
Society and city
That is dying
From crime
And corruption.
Solitude became
His friend.
His life
Was perfect,
Too perfect
To be exact.
He longed
Something that
That was taken
Away from him
When he
Was younger.
His parents' love...
His parents...
His...
...
BANG!
...
BANG!
Murdered in
Crime Alley.
Grief
Despair
Up until
This day.
The irony
Surrounds his
Very mansion
As the billionare,
The man
Who has
Everything,
Did not
Have the
Unconditional Love
And his parents
As he grew up.
Then he
Sits there
In the middle
Of the room,
Holding a gun
Whith tears
Trickled down
His cheeks.
BANG!
YOU ARE READING
A Collection Of Thoughts
PoesíaA collction of poems, shorts stories and other stuff that spawns in my silly little head, written by yours truly
