Thursday, October 16, 2008

Mirrored Hero

An amazing english professor once told me that I should write to write. And she let me write for my grades.  This was one of those pieces of writing.  Thank you Askew!

__________

Struggle. The struggle.
Reaching for the calm peace I recognize in everyone else, my hand leaves my side,
arms outstretched, looking, searching for the blur in the distance I wish was mine

Struggle

My heart stops, my body heavy like mountains of bricks and stone
Putting one foot in front of the other isn't something I do well,
With the mistakes in the back of my mind weighing me down
Surrounding my heart like vines, holding me back in their menacing, choking wrath

My eyes dart around. Where is my hero?
I panic, I try to scream but the words are halted in my throat, suffocating my lungs.
Where is my hero?

I stop and suddenly my world erupts in flame and then I know, it's time for me to go.
So I put aside my fear, put aside my animosity toward the villains in my life and toward myself, and I leave.
I let go of the world I held onto so tightly.
Leaving a part of me behind, I knew this was my only way to cut the vines that were attempting to
tie my hands, tie my legs, tie my heart.

Struggle.
A new struggle, new home, new life.
Alone in a sea of people I push through the crowded hallway, shoved, pulled, walked on, but I press on.
Fear begins to drown me, of abandonment, of helplessness, of loneliness.
The path to my contentment is a long road home, a rough road filled with potholes and ditches just waiting for me to fall in them.
Disregarding them, I stop walking and begin to jump.
Somehow it's easier, saying goodbye had set me free.
So I strive. I take my burned hands and I use them.
The black bruises slowly turn yellow and I open the purple door, crawl into the blue bed, and keep my blood red tears inside my eyelids.

Tripping, stumbling, watching the faceless names and nameless faces oblivious to my inner struggle, I start to fall.
But before I hit the ground, I am caught.
I look around for my hero, for the arms that pulled me up, but then I realize.
It was me. Alone, unfallen, unbroken, unweakened.
Strong despite the struggle.
Unwilling to let the villains ruin the music of my life.
My harmony, my song, my peace.
I stand tall. And hear my name called out from the place where it all began.
The vines that I cut from my skin pull me back to them in their realm of dissonance and imperfection.
I cringe, I hesitate, I wonder.
But I turn around and grasp my harmonious heart in my strong, unbruised hands and I walk.
Not backward, but forward, to my old, burned, and shattered home I used to call mine.

Fear attempts to drown me yet again but I close my eyes and breathe.
I return home.
Return to the root of all my fears, all my mistakes, all my failures, all my bitterness.
I choose not to spit in its face; I would feel too much like them.

So I stand tall, stand strong, and I use my clean hands to wave.
My heart whole, my eyes bloodless,
I look in the mirror
And begin to sing my harmony song
As I see my hero looking back at me.

HGM

10.16.08

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