I've always dreamt of being a hero,
like all sufferers do.
Saving myself and yourself and all of their selves,
and maybe even the villain too.

Shining silver armor and a sword like gold,
a moral compass to never be lead astray.
Living in the name of a cause and the good of all-
Except those at the tip of the blade.

But what of the villain?
Their hopes, their loves, their moral grey.
Cut down at the finish line
by the self-righteous who cannot be stayed.

Your morals are absurd
and your means just as well,
It's not the angels that punish and save,
but those that trod in hell.

What angel knows of love,
or the suffering of a mortal soul?
The ache of a spurned affection
or the terror of growing old?

I didn't fall from heaven,
I happily stepped down.
No god or hero of any land,
could force my heart or hand bound.

My morals are nonexistant
and my armor riddled with dents.
And when they try me as a villain ******,
I'll say none of my misdeeds were well-meant.