splinken maybe i need to let the superheros know that i feel bad for them. for what happened to them. you know. when pop psychology got a hold of them.

it certainly was an interesting development, something i enjoy reading.
but batman at 50? 60? unhappy, weeping for his dead robins? he talks to himself while he leaps from building to building, knees creaking and chest heaving. he talks to dick grayson, but i think grayson died a long time ago. and poor jason. Robin #2? the joker shot him. he keeps jason's costume on display in the batcave, off by itself, away from the gadgets.

and superman? sold out to the reagan administration. he catches soviet missiles mid-air, they detonate against his body. but he's okay. he's superman, after all. then he turns back into clark so he can have an old man heart-to-heart with bruce wayne.

i'm sorry. i'm sorry you can't be two-dimensional anymore. i'm sorry you can't be perfect, infallible. and i'm sorry that i like you better this way.
taryn i guess i am not a superhero
no cape, no tights
no bad guys to fight
big dreams all the same.
sad face of a superhero
sad eyes, no smile
be me for a while
lost cause all the same.
the final fight of a superhero
big bangs, loud crashes,
sounds of a broken dream
tears are all the same
Norm Super? Maybe. Hero? To some.

So what does that make me? A super hero? I don't know, probably not.
silentbob i used to be a superhero no one could touch me no not even myself and you wer like a phonebooth that i somehow stumbled into now look at me i am just like everybody else
grendel i realize now, that, if anything, i was always meant to be a villain in a universe full of villains

just a face in the crowd

somehow, there is both reassurance and frustration in this realization
heart All superheroes are these days are people who like to wear spandex and get tied up. 030710
ashmanzhou so good to know
youre right
im not
the feeling
so real
so what now?
nothing here
i am no hero
not even to me
my duty lies dead
by my hate
torn in two
by my anger
destroying itself in an orgy of selfrighteousness
for my righteousness is corrupt
my eyes are closed to it
i hear it call
but my mouth is choked with ash
of wasted fury wasted on myself
as i stare upon others sorrows
i cannot inflict this to them
it is for me to bear to th'abyss
and the precipice hungers for me
misstree you're only invulnerable
when you have the fullest faith,
and then it fractures
and you come crashing out of the sky.
what's it to you?
who go