When we live in a broken and hurting world,
who do we turn to?
Who guides us when we are lost,
lost at a time where being without bearing will get you killed?
What do we do when the people we look up to are flawed?
When the only guidance they can offer is partial?
When our heroes are so far removed from us?
What happens if everything about you is erased?
On television? In print? In courts? In sports?
What happens if people don't think you exist?
Because you have no heroes?
Nobody to show the world who you are?
Instead they've propped up some doll,
some manikin,
a bookmark quick-reference for them.
They have something to look at,
and instantly know you.
Some false idol so they can say:
"Hey, I know you!"
while at the same time, no,
no, they don't know you at all.
They've wholeheartedly made up the story,
and convinced themselves it's the truth.
Then they punish us because we haven't bought into that story.
Because our so-called heroes were never telling our story.
They're not there for us.
They are not our heroes.
Our heroes' stories are not told.
They're hidden stories.
Between pages.
Between lines.
Between the rich sir's sheets and his legs.
In alleyways beaten up and bleeding.
In the sights of a gun.
Under a police officer's baton.
They're tragic stories of dead people.
Stories written in blood and tears.
Our heroes aren't on prime time television.
Our heroes are in the obituaries.
-o0o-
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