The babe is raised on heroic tales,
taught words like courage, to be brave, to be bold,
watching the men in capes,
imagining flight, imagining strength, imagining the roar of the cheering crowd,
but with age,
the thought of heroism is drained,
like a bullet to the gut,
droplets of blood wet the clothes and floor around you,
each containing the childish imaginations,
scarred and hardened,
the skin becomes,
thoughts turn from heroism to the everyday struggle,
from God-like to mortal,
from creator to pawn,
yet the desire never dies,
leaking out in daydreams and at night,
those moments where you yearn for greatness,
to show the heroic shade that you are capable of,
each passing moment that hero withers,
and you settle for the fact that you being alive is a heroic action,
but,
death claimed you long ago,
when you decided to grow up.
Youtube: Learned Living
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/learned_living/
Poem: Electric Self-Help
Article: Stoic Lesson: Aim For Internal Growth
Short Story: Everything Work’s Itself Out
Learned Living 