Privileged

Who saves the hero,

When the hero needs to be saved?

That is the thing.

We are all mortal,

And at no given time,

Can we continuously,

Be the hero.

We are attracted,

To the fallen essence,

Of manhood;

We yearn to know,

Other people’s mistakes,

And live their lives

Vicariously.

This is our escape.

Some of us escape,

From poverty and perils,

While others escape,

From the polar opposite.

For those,

Such as myself,

We look to the hero,

To both their admirable qualities,

And their misguided,

To escape from,

The ever-true reality,

That everything is fine.

Nothing will go wrong.

No pain,

Will afflict you.

You,

Will not starve.

Sure,

There are struggles—

But your lifestyle,

Has taught you,

Not to fear.

We are the people,

Who need heroes;

Someone to teach us,

How to feel,

Pain and sorrow;

Someone who will vicariously,

Be torn apart,

For us inside,

So we might taste,

The bittersweet nectar,

Of affliction,

Which comes from love.

We privileged children,

Though we are not rich,

Know the meaning,

Of comfort.

However,

We do not know,

What it is,

To be comforted,

Or to comfort,

Someone else.

It is not our fault;

We do not know any better.

Perhaps this,

Is our affliction—

To have so much,

Love and passion,

Bottled up—

But no one,

To receive it.

Perhaps,

We have been bred,

To be selective—

Not to be

Ungrateful—

But to always,

Want better.

Perhaps,

We look to the hero,

Not for who he is,

But for what he is,

And what he does,

To himself—

For the razor blades,

That tear his heart,

And break through,

His chest.

Or possibly,

We are pulled,

Towards these “heroes”,

Attracted,

Like the positive and negative,

Ends of a magnet,

Because for once,

We have found,

Someone,

Lonier than ourselves.

At least,

This is my affliction.