A Poem called "The Hero"
The Hero ~
In the abyss of vacuity, I'm drowning,
My mind: a labyrinth with no end.
The tempest within me is astounding,
Whereas I barely get out of the bed.
What's the point of our world, I wonder,
And the corners of my eyes become red.
Maybe we're just someone's blunder,
Broken pieces of my soul simply shed.
Light at the close of each tunnel is assigned,
Still, I discern no beginning nor pass.
In infinite disarray I am blind,
Groveling over fragments of glass.
I seek for a hero from myself to save me,
But who'd care enough for my wounds to tend?
The living dare not sailing the thus weeping sea,
Then, how could I possibly mend?
The cells of my body: in combat with each other,
Should I forfeit, surrender to such malice?
Conquer one hurdle, here it comes, another,
Presenting fresh poison from a golden chalice.
Surprisingly enough I walk on, learn to fend,
Notwithstanding havoc, I light up my flame.
With howling, my spirit lets me amend,
For the hero I'm in need of... bears my name.
- A Poet in Attempt
~ About the Poem
Once upon a time, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow said: “Every man has his secret sorrows which the world knows not; and often times we call a man cold when he is only sad.”
From the beginning of humanity itself, people have been struggling with themselves. The fear, the pain, the uncertainty, and the never-ending questioning of our character and our actions are inevitable parts of every life.
Some people go as far as to have a constant war fulminating inside of them. Some see no way out, feeling abandoned, or at least alien to other people. Like they're separated from everyone else with a glass wall, which lets them see others living their lives, but doesn't let them participate or live their own lives. And they suffer for it greatly.
This poem is for all such people, but also for everyone else, as a gentle reminder that someone out there feels something similar to what you feel, thinks something similar to what you think, and knows that the only heroes we'll ever really need are those dormant within us.
“There are wounds that never show on the body that are deeper and more hurtful than anything that bleeds.”— Laurell K. Hamilton
© 2020 Ivana Divac