My name never meant anything,
couldn’t stride or glide on leathery wings,
only waddled—the awkward bird at the dance.
Never knew anything gilded before this, not like him,
because I know this man under the mask.
How he pretends that a cowl and cape make him
one of us, then spits in my face like my family name
is waning into history, the last heir a bachelor.
My family never cared that I could inherit anything.
But I didn’t grow up pretty boy.
Never knew the gold of the sky before taking the treasure myself.
Penguins live their entire wings and never learn to fly.
Forgive me for watching other dark and flying things
and becoming envious.
Forgive me for reaching in this cruel city
for something more, for something I wasn’t born to claim.
Maybe I wasn’t fit for umbrellas and top hat. Maybe I wasn’t meant for the throne.
But do not all Gotham boys dream of growing up
to become Emperor?
Posted on September 29, 2014, in Comic Books, Poems, Poetry, Writing and tagged Batman, comic books, Gotham, Oswald Cobblepot, Penguin, personal, poem, poetry, spoken word, writing. Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.