Growing up we're always taught one thing:
There's always the bad guys, with a violent sting,
But the good guys finish first when the fat lady sings.
But, throughout my years I developed my wings,
Flew to the sky, and collected my all of my rings,
And it looks all so different with a new perspective.
There are good men doing bad things,
Just to stay protected,
My whole life it's been Dark vs. Light,
The Good vs. The Bad,
The Wrong vs. The Right,
The Happy vs. The Sad,
The Brains vs. The Might,
The Heart vs. The Mind.
Now I see that there is no line.
Bad men do good deeds,
And good men plant bad seeds.
I listen to my heart start beating,
Cuz in every poem I write,
My lines start bleeding,
I'm receeding into the back of my skull,
Cuz life wasn't meant to be this fucking dull.
I only every questioned one thing:
What role?
Who am I going to be in this world?
The devious super-villain,
Or the hero that gets the girl?
But this new information is too much,
I tried meditating it away with no luck.
Am I an extra in someone else's story,
Or will I train someone else to fight for me?
Am I meant to live in the background,
Or do I make the world safe and sound?
Am I always meant to be The Lost,
Or am I destined to become The Found?
I'm not exactly sure, so I sit and I wait,
For the day that I realize that I'm actually too late.
The truth of this planet is terrible and ugly,
There's no good or bad,
And no pure evil.
If you want to be saved,
Become your own hero.
Poor people staying poor,
While the fat cats are gettin' fatter,
So there's no more black and white,
Because only Grey Matters.

In this specific poem, I talk about my realization of good and bad, and my own existential crisis.

To hold to the noble cause, even though it may be lost
ignoring the forfeit clause, at the most extreme of cost

Fighting beyond the utmost edge, of every barrier known
leveraging the greatest wedge, even if its done, alone

Assailing the evil arts, in it's deepest darkest lair
knowing in the heart, supported only, by a prayer

Hand to hand against malevolence, landing the last blow
restoring all the balances, Justice, all there is to know

Striking down the battlements, of hatred and despair
freeing of the innocents, found there, and everywhere

Running the hellion's pathway, dodging swords and spears
never loosing the way ahead, no trepidation, and no fears

Seeking brighter outcomes, despite what is thought
even if the endings, and fruition, come to naught

Ever is the conquest, against the hordes and foe
never to lie in protest, never ever letting go

No finger placed upon it, nothing tangible defined
a mantle, of unknown fit, with self-sacrifice, aligned

There can be no certainty, of how its proper to react
no way to know the hero's key, that unlocks, the hero's act

Brought this one back from the past
and toasted :D
Eleni Jul 18

'Are you pleasing those Lions?'

She thinks to herself under Nelson's Column.

'I am no hero of the Nile, nor of Trafalgar. I am an empty vessel.'

City of Angels, yet full of devils. Will she find the exit from Oblivion, in those molten, vermillion revels?

'And will you climb that stairway to heaven? Is it true that what glitters is gold?'

That golden dust, which lies on her beside table, sedative for her sorrows.

'Oh he was a foul coxcomb. England expects every heart will follow it's duty!'

She is followed, by those feral eyes;
Those on the underground, those in the streets

And those who she will wish
her eyes will never meet.

This short poem was partially inspired by one of my favourite songs from The Doors called 'Hyacinth House' whereby Jim Morrison expresses loneliness and the nature of being judged by others based on careers, personalities and relationships. I combined this with the strong presence of the lions in Trafalgar Square in London, which have a intimidating appearance and represent the strength of the British Empire. These eyes of judgement seem to pierce through the speaker in this poem who is being criticised by the personified statues for being unworthy of recognition.
Sam Jul 12

Hope depleting
Heart beat fleeting
Cast astray
Void taking over
Numb to the touch
Cold at the skin
Crushed by the pain
A life lived in vain
There is no escape
Chalk and yellow tape
A hero, not pretend
Now has met his end

Kevin J Taylor Sep 2015

With bat and ball and gloves in hand and on our way
we'd pass by old man Finch where when he'd sit and watch the world
one of us would wave. Most times he'd look,
he'd say—Ever tell you boys about the game?

He stole our breath away, sure, a hundred times.
We were fielders for him, basemen, catchers and every ball
split seconds from extra innings in mid-flight-
from-outfield-to-second-base-and-home-plate night games.

Peanuts, beer, hotdog vendors shouting,
with every other voice, shouting!
Out! You buncha losers! C'mon cmon cmon! Safe!
Allow the call or fault it, either way.

We were ball card heroes, just the same,
with bat and ball and gloves in hand and on our way.

Daisy Rae Jul 11

She takes care
Of a house that is too big
Cleaning every inch
It became her new gig
'Manly things that men do'
She picked up real quick
Outside hard work she became a pro at
I will look out the window as she picks up loads of yard sticks
Food is always on the table
My bed is always made
She never misses a beat
All these things she does herself, she doesn't even get paid
The grass is always cut
If something is broken she'll do all she can to fix it
She doesn't ask for help
It's amazing I do admit
She provides for all my needs
I'm so blessed to have her
My mother is my hero
And if something bad were to occur
I couldn't keep up with the responsibility
I'd give up before I even started
But my mother was a different woman
She made beauty out of the broken-hearted

In the long or short expanse of your life
can you say you have become a hero?
I often wonder if I’ll be remembered
for anything important when I’m gone.
No biological children to carry my name
no feats that brought me fame
no bravery to save a life in danger
no building or great wealthy gain
no great status or social changer.

But more and more lately
being considered or thought of greatly
is not my concern.
Now-a-days I ask myself if I’ve taken time
to listen or smile or write a rhyme
to pause for a minute or an hour
to stop, notice and smell a flower?
Have I spoken kindly in a bad mood
or shut up when someone was rude
or let traffic in my lane
or fed my soul as well as my brain?

Today I ask not if I am a hero
but simply if I am becoming.

“Becoming a Hero,” Copyright ©2017 by Glenn Currier

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