When asked for a Hero of mine as a kid
My mind generally filled with a blank
When asked to this day, “Who’s the one you would model?”
The answer that spews most times lands with a clank

The problem, you see, is living to always be all others’ Hero
And finding a match worth my aping is hard
So you become hero to them and yourself
The monkey is me, always tired, always marred

At some point you lose track of yourself and Self
And wonder “What is this which lives in my skin?”
I no longer discerned who was Me from Their Me
At some point unraveling had to begin

I no longer strive to be anyone’s hero
If I’m admired – serendipitous plus
The Me that you see is the Me that you get
I’m grateful to finally be free from the fuss

“Who’s your hero” you ask? Well, my hero is Me
I know that it probably sounds selfish
I no longer care – that’s the key to my health
Hero worship left me with a death wish

I survived that attempt – don’t intend trying more
Now I’m free from attempting to mimic your dream
And the funny thing is, if you look hard enough
I’m now far more Hero than what it would seem

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