Poems by a "Hero".

America sat by himself in his room. "Huh. I'm worthless aren't I?" He shook his head being over whelmed by his thoughts. He stood up and went over to his desk picking up his pen and putting it to the paper. And he did what he always does when he's depressed. He wrote.

All this pain inside

Feelings of nothing

All these times I've been denied.

So I've gone back to acting

As if it doesn't mater

He set down his pen and put his head in his hands and sighed. He rubbed his eyes before starting to write again.

I sick of the Screaming

Yet I'm always fearing

The day I hear nothing

And the connection ends

What do I do then?

America laughed quietly to himself. Always has to be one about England in there…

I'm shy

I'm scared

But nobody cares.

All they will ever see

Is the outer me

They will only see my show

And never know

What lies beneath

A tear ran down his cheek as he wrote. This would mean nothing to anyone who read it. But it meant everything to him.

I'm not a hero

I'm not a savior

I'm a villain

I'm a destroyer

I have nothing to offer

Yet I seem to have everything you need

I'm a monster

Why can't you see?

America jumped as he heard footsteps coming up the stairs. He looked back at his door just in time to see England coming in. "W-what are you doing here?" He realized he was still crying and quickly wiped his arm across his face.

"America, are you… crying?" America laughed nervously as England walked closer.

"N-no! Of course not dude! Why would I be crying? The Hero never cries!" England was over by his desk. America franticly grabbed his poems.

"What was that? A letter?" England asked looking at the paper America was holding close to his heart.

"Yeah! A letter!" He laughed nervously again, England didn't look convinced.

"May I see it?"

"No!" America answered way too quickly, he noticed this and added. "It's kinda personal dude." There. He was getting back into "character". England gave him a sideways look before sighing. "Well. I'm here to bring you to the meeting like you asked. Get ready, I'll be waiting down stairs." England gave him one last look over his shoulder before heading back down stairs.

America let out a sigh of relief. England would never let him live it down if he found him writing poetry… That or England would look at him differently. He wouldn't be able to handle England pitying him or looking down on him. No. It was better with how things were. England hating him. 'It's the best solution.' America thought to himself a single tear falling from his eyes.