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Zywa Jul 8
The past heroes rest

in the dilapidated --


inn that the world is.
Collection "Rubáiyat" ("Quatrains", 1100, Omar Khayyam), quatrain "This worn caravanserai", in the 1898 version by Edward  Heron-Allen

Collection "Stream"
Was not, want not
Maybe waste, is a hero...
Specific notion, of a quaint lot
Given to significant others, to owe

Promises and races
Taken advantage of...
Lucre, in tight places
To tear fright from an alien love

Powers that did...
Hark amidst times rest
A halt of hardship, habit, and hid
Youths of a secret, we blessed

Time in now's moral
Such, a reason for each
Their solitude, is sour rational
The question, of life to reach...

For loves first kiss...
Peace, worth more than poise
With each decency, we made is
A world's choice...
Speed seems to be a quiet clamor for more than a calling of wishes, even mention the patience...
David Hilburn Jun 13
Ably, a convenient door
Caution, I would esteem's vain
Let with poorer light, a certain valor
Has taken me, for a fate that prayed...

Sweet order
To a life, so lived
So sent to wishes, foreign?
In the name of love, given

But persuasion remains
Sour reasons, with a tongue
Let in certain light anew, the stains
Of lucre's rhetoric, has a voice that won

Hatred, for a kiss
Somehow profound
Somehow blood, is our only wish?
Breaking a promise, sympathy allowed

A welcome turn of chaste
Into a fate of simple regrets
Made well, and in need, haste
That stole life's reasons, where we never met...?
Heathen? show your imposition to a ghost, and pillows will talk in a language that lived longer than, you...
David Hilburn Feb 15
Wishes, I never said...?
Rolling tongues, admit appearances
Are deceiving, but purpose to lead...
Has an ear for a rainbow's chances

Rainbows lead to pouting voices...
Facing the stare, I make a quiet
Collective memory served; has choices...
The reagent of a house of colors, so bright

Star's that starve?
As the moment indicates...
Your rhyme for the silent, is another's liar...
Privilege behind a scare, finishes the irate

Races of fate, found in a valued youth...
Respite is to be, an awkward challenge
Of a time, that accuses you for couth...
Curses of final fear, are often to nearer mention

The fright in the rain
Told to sit, by a silver voice...
Sigh's and minding, the candor of pain
Will such a song, begin here with loyalty?

Does and doesn't...
Shame wear a passion's decision?
Deciding upon, a notorious lesson won't
Is a handful of salt, the only shared intuition?

Liberty, at all costs...
And a hill named only rage
That worth's the world, with hosts
Sent to a wish, I made...

Time be a liar's friend...
One step more
Like love and hates marvel, to lend...
The story of reach, is who's war?
Waiting on the wane of wax, weight has its water...
We walk among hero’s every day.
And they are recognised,
But not merely enough.
They all fight on the same team,
They don’t always have the same uniforms,
But they fight for you, out of love.
They get paid sure, just about,
But it doesn’t keep them there,
It’s their compassion.

They suffer long hours, and bad pay,
Overworked, overwhelmed,
Something we need to refashion.
Yet they continue, fighting for your health,
Mending wounds, treating disease,
Doing their all, doing what they can.
They do it with a smile, a friendly face,
They do it agile, and with grace,
Yet they’re just human, not Superman.
They’re on the frontline, hands on,
They’re behind the scenes,
Each a cog, in a massive machine.
But this machine is built by living parts,
And they’re breaking more and more,
Physically, emotionally, everything in between,
Yet they carry on.
They continue to fight.
A battle never won.
Recognised and praised,
These are our heroes,
Recognised, revered, yet still unsung.
Joining a NHS Trust in a digital team, I saw the clinical teams first hand, as well as the admin and "back" staff. I wrote this on a break. Not really Proof read it.
Odd Odyssey Poet Jan 2023
Burnt out heroes
in amongst the burning plans of villains
Fearless- in amongst trying to be like your heroes
within comic feelings. Sounds comic; chiefly
read in pages of a lifestyle. Naked eye strips,
greyish looks of cloud lids filled with rain in my
eyes

Heaven is crying every night, a thousand
angels in a stormy night
Reminiscing fallen angels from that hole
in the sky. Human are too fallen; those lost
of conduct or virtue- a hole in their soul's closet
the devil that urge you. Church who; probed
questions of your faith to search you.
As I refer to you being trapped in your mind
off it's strict curfew

Even as a role model plays a perfect smile
there's still an act to keep thoroughly
But in that case when fans aren't around,
their face peels away the skins of lie
No need to practice your lines
no need to pretend to be a star out of Hollywood
like light's shine. Shyly acting free!
The end of the scene, a role model no longer blind
when they're now unseen

Skin grey
un rubbed emotions, and cracking sounds
drawing river lines on the skins display
All applauds are gone; just you clapping by
yourself under the clap of thunderstorms
Still feeling empty, even with the person you
brought home, bought home- to come and practice
those secrets tabs of your chrome

At times trying to be anti pessimistic
anti climatic, of all you've achieved and all
those childhood wishes
Swimming with the ugly fishes; selfish needs
you couldn't have had before
It's the role models, having crowds dancing
to their tune, all pressing their head on the floor
Can't mask a flaw, only disguising it until
it all comes out in the world

No role models left,
just the ashes of their dead careers and
immediate deaths. O yes, success tickles
the ears—as common sense becomes so deaf
All is grey, grey is the colour of my heroes,
forgetting they all started as imperfect people
Prowling,
like a wolf
on the periphery of the unknown
betwixt knowledge and dread
I saw the dark truth
I felt the gulf
the waste
the expanse
the difference in power
the taste of defeat
the vice grip of the inevitable
the long, slow bleed of my dignity
flowing out
with the gold of my entrails
eviscerated by my pride
how I dared to topple the monolithic,
undeniable truth
that there is always
a better you
a better me
a better us, out there
stronger
bigger
faster
smarter
more hung
more fashionable
more handsome, more beautiful, more androgynous
more capable
more accomplished
more patient
more... loving
more empathetic
they know more random facts
they've been more places
they've known more people
they've seen more sunrises
they've counted every moon
their worst is better than your best day
he cares for her more deeply than you did
she loves that
she's forgotten you
he tells her what he never told you
and she loves him for that
you were always afraid to find out
they never invite you because you're not fun
what a downer
what a bore
there's always that one person
upon whom your envy is never sated
they lope in moonlight
flowing locks of grace
teeth bared in a frightful grin
they know all your cards
they can play you like a fiddle
they're out there
where you fear to go
the apex predator
the person you'll never be
but dream you could
and dreams are all you'll have...
I'm a competitive person, by nature.

And this poem came to me as I realized, one night while gaming, that I'd never be the best at anything. I felt a sense of futility about any pride I've ever managed to feel concerning an accomplishment of mine.

I watched myself, small, in a sort of third-person view, question why it was I have ever striven for anything, when I continually run into my betters.

It was a scary realization. But, I believe, it's ever more scary when you have no powerful allies in the world, or when, even your allies fear the world at large, and you're all united in fear. It's a condition that humility fails to pacify.

A deep dread. A paralysis of hope.

Enjoy!

DEW
Josie Stewart Jun 2022
My heroes are born in pain.
And in pain they seek beauty.
By their hands they find it.
They spill their blood and tears into words.
Then they pick up their swords.
They march forward, resolved
If no one else will start, they will.

But my heroes are not heroes because they sacrificed themselves.
They are not heroes because they bled.
They didn't do anything that you couldn't do.
They are heroes because even in their pain they gave a **** and asked you to join them.

Imagine what we could do if you actually did.
Dedicated to Assata Shakur

"No one is going to give you the education you need to overthrow them. Nobody is going to teach you your true history, teach you your true heroes, if they know that that knowledge will help set you free." - Assata Shakur
M Vogel Apr 2022
The question,

within its very core nature ..
almost  solely hinges around
our own  deeply hidden,
internal self-betrayal:

In the creatively-covered up  alliances
we make..

In order to prop up, the parts of us
that refuse to respond  in any growing,
self-sacrificing way, that would lead
to the true growth of change.

And so..  within our own,
internally/externally-manufactured,
form of consent,  comes
a smile-washed, deep contempt
for anything,  and everything

that would (or could)  expose

Just how deeply we have
sold  ourselves out
through the ultra-fine art,
of alliance.

And like a lamb to the slaughter
are those who choose to unknowingly
(or with agenda-based blinders)
Love, defend,  and support
those  who use  such an alliance
to prop themselves up,

from falling over.

But the Universe..
within its deep ache for us--
It never stops asking of us
the Primal question

We can respond  through
the suffering  of the self

(leading to true growth  and change)

Or make alliance with Death
as a way of short-cutting the answer.

But within that shortcut
someone always, always, pays.

https://youtu.be/koJlIGDImiU

#hero. xo
Persephone Dec 2021
While other girls were dreaming about Prince Charming saving the day
I was praying for the Villain to take me away
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