o-ffrightings
When I was little
My mom would tell me stories
Of superhero’s and princesses
And talking animated creatures.
They were so real, so intimate,
So enchanting
That I believed them.
I believed that prince charming would someday visit
And sweep me gracefully off my feet
And set me on his pure white horse
And bring me off to the castle.
But even more importantly
I believed that prince charming
Was the hero.
Just like I believed that superhero’s
Were the good guys.
But to tell you the truth, I’ve grown to the point
Of realizing that prince charming
Can occasionally act like a dick.
And sometimes superhero’s are in it
For the fame
Or for being able to fly around the park
In the middle of summertime when gas is expensive.
So in a world of indifferent princes
And corrupted men in tights
It’s hard for me to find
The real heroes.
I don’t think a hero is defined
In statistics
Or popularity
Or how good their hair looks.
I think a hero saves lives
And lifts people up (without powers)
And can mean everything to a person
Who has never met them.
I think a hero can be anyone.
Hell, the man you saw walking down the street
With a cane and a newspaper
Could’ve been a hero three times over.
But you wouldn’t know. (How could you?)
I don’t think people realize this.
How one person could mean nothing
To you
But everything to another.
I think that some people aren’t seen as hero’s
Because of their “image”
Or because they’re “mainstream”
Or because they’re not a doctor or a lawyer or some educated prick.
My hero isn’t any of those things.
My hero doesn’t wear a cape.
(Although I’m sure he’d like to.)
He doesn’t wear a crown either.
He wears snapbacks
And ripped jeans
And sometimes a leather jacket
Or even flannel if I’m lucky.
My hero sings songs,
Songs about love and parties and having fun.
(I like that.
I like music.)
My hero isn’t perfect.
My hero drinks, and he swears, and sometimes
He gets frustrated
(especially if he hasn’t had enough sleep).
My hero used to need a hero himself.
I think about that a lot…who are the hero’s heroes?
Who do you look up to when you already have
So much resting on your shoulders?
My hero used to have bad guys chasing him
Despite him never signing up
For the job of getting rid of them.
My hero isn’t Batman.
My hero isn’t Prince Charming.
And you know it still breaks my heart
That he was once sad
Just like I can be.
He deserves to be happy, much more than
Anyone I’ve ever (not) met.
My hero does this thing, when he smiles.
His eyes light up
And they crinkle at the edges
Folding like the way my grandma used to tuck me in at night.
His smile, it’s warm;
So warm that it can even me feel warm, when I’m shivering
And alone
And can’t remember where I put my own grin.
Usually when I can’t find my grin I put on something else,
Not wanting to feel vulnerable,
But generally find only used tears
Next to the endless pairs of discarded socks
At the foot of my bed.
My hero still has people
That like to pull at his heartstrings
And not in the good way.
Some people like to pull
And tug
And try to strangle his beautiful mind
With negative thoughts,
Using his own heartstrings to do this because, you see,
My hero has an exceptionally big heart.
I look up to him for that, as well.
That even though he’s endured so much
And has been rejected
And bruised,
He still manages to
Love with everything he has.
I guess I don’t know this for sure though.
I’ve never met my hero.
My hero lives an ocean away.
Sometimes he comes closer
But never close enough
And sometimes we’re even twelve hours apart
But it really only makes a difference to one of us.
How do you repay your heroes?
A thank you might suffice,
But thank you is only two words which cannot make up
For the paragraphs and novels
Of good thoughts they’ve nonchalantly placed
In your head.
Human beings are fragile.
We are made up of “try again’s”
And “don’t make mistakes.”
We are forced to suffer through heartbreak,
And we hear words that cut like razor blades.
(Sometimes they actually do.)
We go through so much,
But to think that someone else can pull themselves out of
That overpowering current
Makes me feel like I can too.
My hero has a name.
It means protector, ironically enough.
(it has four letters)
My name means pure, which is either cruel irony
Or a glaring arror.
(it has seven letters)
But even being only four letters
His name resonates inside my brain
So often that it appears never-ending.
My hero does not know that he is my hero.
I wish he did.
I really do.
My hero does not know that I love him
For indirectly making me happy when I am sad
And my hero does not know
That I would do anything for a simple
“hello”
Or a hug.
I don’t know what it is about hugs
That make me weak at the knees
But I’m sure his hugs
Would make my knees disappear altogether.
I hope my hero is happy.
I don’t know if he is.
God, heroes deserve the entire world for what
They do for everyone else.
But they don’t always get it.
Maybe that’s why some of the most celebrated people
Are also the most sad; there is only so much
Happiness you can give to others before you’re
No longer creating more, but just siphoning it off
Of yourself.
I’ve always wondered why so many poets and musicians
Have been cursed with depression and mental illness.
I once read that most of Virginia Woolf’s poems
Weren’t even recognized
Until after her death.
How sad that our inner sun is only found
Once our body is not there to imprison it.
But I digress.
My hero does not even write poems.
He does write those songs, though.
I listen to them, when I feel like I am gone.
It is very easy to disappear within yourself
When you are so very little
In a world so very big
And sometimes it’s nice to listen to wordless reassurance
That makes you feel bigger than the sum of your parts.
It’s nice to feel bigger than something.
I didn’t mean for this poem to be that long.
I’m just trying to make you, whoever you are,
Realize that a hero is a hero, no matter who they are.
And my hero is special.
He glows
(not like that Green Lantern shit)
Like the moon in the middle of august.
(I’ve always liked watching the stars on my birthday.)
But he is made merely of skin
And bone
And muscle
And love
With blood pumping through his veins
Like any other;
Wound up in the only miracle
That we, as humans, can produce.
Life.
It’s weird to think that we are made of the same things,
Him and I.
For he does so much
And I so little
And he will never write anything about me
But one thousand words later
And here I am still trying to spit out
That Liam Payne has changed my life
And I hope someday he will know that
As much as I know it.

Protector by me (via o-ffings)

This made my heart swell so much. It’s so beautiful! There’s never enough words to describe how wonderful this poem was. I’ll read it everyday just because.