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The wooden bridge
May 11, 2018
With eight dreadful
years in his eyes,
next to a wooden bridge,
Thinking about things
that he wishes never happened.
His friends just kicked him out
of a game of football,
he never cheated.
Meanness, the only thing that kills egos.
On a gloomy day,
his hair is longer than normal.
With some tears slowly falling from his eyes
wishing that never happened,
he sits there and thinks,
am I really their friends?
On the sunny day,
he sat next to a wooden bridge,
with eight dreadful years,
a boy was deep in sorrow.
© Ariel L., New York, NY
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This is a portrait poem about a boy sitting next to a wooden bridge.
I hope people will love this poem. It was one of my best poems. The picture you will see is no exact to the poem. There is no bridge