in the park, the homeless stamp their feet in the cold

as the snow drifts down through the city

onto leafless trees, painting winter branches

white and still and voiceless

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.

A glass is broken across our backs.
The shards take hold and we wince.
We hoist the world upon our shoulders.
It drives the shards in deep, like tacks.

We suffer the pain of cultured hate.
The daggers destined for our flesh.
Still they expect we lift the empire,
And with our wounds support its weight.

Whether they praise us for being brave,
Or curse our kind to an early death,
They all demand our labor to drive
Production until we hit the grave.

I had a dream I lost my voice
And could not speak to anyone
My isolation was not by choice
And of recourse I had none