I think we are gonna be friends

He sits on the steps adorned in a red coat and hat
A hero dressed as a hero who hates himself
In his hands is a chipped axe and bloody baseball bat
His old uniform sits folded neatly over his bed on a handmade shelf
His shaky fingers run quietly through his blondish hair
He faced his darkest side and killed it with violence
For the rest of the day he sat on that stair
And looked off at the trees rustling in the silence
Am I a superhero or a vicious killer?
An emblem and a costume or a scythe and a hood?
What happens now that the best becomes a blood spiller?
What good is strength? What good is being good?
When deep down you’re just as bad as the worst of them?
What does it mean when I saw myself as evil and then I killed him?

Now before anyone freaks out about any deeper meaning to this poem, I’ll just go ahead and explain that it’s about an imaginary character that I invented in a comic book I have yet to write.