Scholars, politicians, activists, paperback prophets and ministers vie to be your next savior in the Obama Era, but while you recognize them as false prophets, do you recognize the falsehoods inside you?
(More after the jump)
Where have all the good men gone
And where are all the gods?
Where’s the street-wise Hercules
To fight the rising odds?
Isn’t there a white knight upon a fiery steed?
Late at night I toss and turn and dream
of what I need
I need a hero
I’m holding out for a hero ’til the end of the night
He’s gotta be strong
And he’s gotta be fast
And he’s gotta be fresh from the fight
I need a hero
I’m holding out for a hero ’til the morning light
He’s gotta be sure
And it’s gotta be soon
And he’s gotta be larger than life
— “Holding Out for a Hero,” Written by Jim Steinman and Dean Pitchford
I’m holding out for a hero.
Nope. Not you, so please put your hand away. I’m just going to keep sitting on this hard ass ground waiting for Zeus meets Shaft meets MLK meets Ramses meets Moses meets Jesus in a burrito. No need to do the work. Someone else will do it. No need to join the fight. The fight is ready made processed with sodium to serve on sterling silver platters. Sporks and plastic knives. And everything is so mushy, you don’t even have to chew.
Yeah. I don’t like it much, but what can you do?
I’m waiting on a hero.
I’ve seen them, the pretenders. I’ve watched them go to the tome and push away the stone and remove his decayed flesh. I’ve watched them drape it over their own skin and smile. Arms open, books for sale in hand, they smile and the beg that they are the true one. They are the light. They know the way. “Follow me!” they shout, but it doesn’t sound strong like the want. They sound weak.
The corpse was rotted and the soul was long gone and it was nothing a thing like spider webs and dust.
“Follow me,” they shout.
I sit. Martin’s skin rots. It smells.
“Follow me,” they shout.
The concrete hurts my hard ass, but I won’t move.
“Follow ME!” they beg. “Follow me! Pick me! Choose me! LOVE ME!”
But I won’t go.
I never go.
I’m holding out for a hero.
Offer me your hand and I’ll refuse.
I prefer the hard ass curb.
Yeah, I don’t like it much, but what can I do? Get up on my own? I don’t know how.
I hate the looks from the ones with books,
But I don’t have the sense it took to read the book.
The word anti-intellectualism don’t mean shit to me,
But fuck a nigga who think he smarter than me.
Dress walk talk like a white man,
But now the president’s a black man, so I guess that shit is cool.
But not really? Feel me?
Ignorance is my drug, I stay high
People think I’m lazy, but I’ll go far
Do anything for money
Never say broke
Got a car so clean
Got chains, got ropes
Got chains, got ropes, got tied to debt
I’m a slave to the economy but that’s how I like to be kept
At least this time I chose the curb
No one stole me from the step
I’m holding out for a hero.
I’m holding out for a hero.
Live Your Best Life. 
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