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Steele Jan 2015
**** you!
How dare you spurn my words.
With you it's never what I said,
but what you think you heard.

How dare you doubt the nature
of my truth; would I say
that you are beautiful
and mean anything less?
How dare you call me a liar,
and hold under my feet such a fire,
and beg me "Confess! You think I'm ugly,
it's true! How could I be perfect as you?"

I don't point out my own flaws; in your eyes they're not there.
I don't hold up a mirror to my face for you to see my sunken eyes,
I don't list you every lie, or tell you of all my crimes,
I don't quibble and deface what you hold beyond any compare.
I just grin, and say "Thanks," and let it rest there.
And I try to make you understand, but you turn me away,
and now I'm done wasting air.
There's nothing left to explain.
You were beautiful when I said it, now you're ugly in vain.
And could you see that for truth, you'd be beautiful once again.

But it doesn't matter;
You're too busy raging with spittle,
to listen to the truth that I've painstakingly shown.
And I'm too busy loving you
to allow your beauty to not shine through,
So, I take my leave of you,
tears marring that face you claimed to love so,
heading into the unknown,

Oh, **** you, again!
My words; my feelings
are not yours
but my own.
If my feelings mean so little,
Then be ugly alone.
You just reached it.
Steele Jan 2015
She dreams in scarlet, of far away lands;
Of heroes muscled, impeccably dressed.
She dreams of a charming Renaissance's man,
and murmurs sweet nothings into my chest.
Her perfect lips quiver; red as her face.

Fan blades mock me as I stare into space.

She dreams of torn bedposts with shattered frames,
Broken by passion released uncontrolled.
She moans in her sleep and whispers a name.
My lips start to quiver, matching her own.
That name gifts my ears such discordant tones.

Were I its owner, my heart might be whole.

Slowly, my pulse commences to waver.
I ask, fearing what answers might portend..

                         If I were to move, perchance to wake her,
                         would she regret her dulcet dreaming's end?
I'm not the jealous type, he says, as if the saying made it true.
Steele Jan 2015
Muscles strain.
One breath, two reps.
Push through the pain.
One breath, two steps.

Tears catch; burn.
One breath, two wet lines.
Across my face, blink; return.
One breath, two reps. One breath, two reps.

Her face is on my mind;
One breath, pause.
                  Think about her; what you lost.
                        Break; shoulders shake,                 heave,                 gasp,
build back up; Breathe. Then again, strain. Forget the pain.

Don't think; Refrain.
One breath, no thought.
Don't think about the                pain.
One breath, no thought.
No thoughts, no pain.
One breath,
                too many thoughts,
                                          one breath,
                                                       but in vain...
                                          Muscles catch,
                            heart strains,
              breaks, the pain too much to sustain,
                             the pain of her face; encompassing my brain,

                                                         ­                Her face is on my mind again.
Rest in peace.
Steele Jan 2015
I was thirteen when I broke my wrist for the first time,
Miming Cinderella Man's fists as they jabbed faster than jets through the sky.
He was blue collar, blue jeans, blue bruises and blue eyes;
Waiting for his chance, and then taking it by the blind-side,
He taught me the meaning of a left hook to life and coming back from behind.
I was raised on Cinderella.

She was thirteen when daddy read her the tale that first time,
and she grew up wishing to be Cinderella, miming her words and her stride,
She wore blue dresses, smoked blue crystals, cried blue tears with blue eyes;
Waiting to be saved by a prince with blood bluer than money could buy,
Cinderella taught her to sit back and wait for her princely perfect guy,
She was raised on Cinderella.

We were raised on Cinderella,
We were twenty and change when we locked blue and green eyes,
Mine had darkened to green by that eye-locking time,
Life tends to darken things; It's just how it goes, and when mine
took that hue, things were no longer so blue.
Because even though we were both raised on Cinderella,
Princesses and Paupers don't find love; When they do it isn't "true"
Because no blue crystal smoked could cloak the pain and disguise;
No fairytale magic can hold back real tears from real eyes.
My Cinderella was a prize fighter;
Her Cinderella was the prize,
but the stories are different, and in the end, both are lies.
To this day, I remember your eyes, and the memory brings back only love and heartbreak. We weren't meant to be, and I stand by my words when we went our separate ways. Love isn't a fairy tale. I'm not prince charming, and your princess belongs in another castle. I hope you find him one day.
Steele Jan 2015
My friend Amelia (real name, of course, redacted)
is something of a pained Ophelia.
The play's the thing, the part brilliantly acted;
She stands alone by Hamlet's side,
She sighs and moans and pouts and pines,
and waits for him to be attracted.

But Hamlet I know; He's a friend of mine,
and for her heart, he doesn't pine. He's out to solve his father's ******;
Let him go, Ophelia. It's all right. He won't be dissuaded by your ardour;
your love won't keep him long distracted.

Senpai; My Liege; it all rings far more familiar than it aught.
"Notice me!"
"Notice me!"
or then again...
                           not.
Steele Jan 2015
My life's going to bits, but you people make me smile.
That's all that really matters, when I think about it.
Also, I'm a bit of a bibliophile,
and I don't want inactivity to make my poetry sh*t.

I think I'll stay a while.
Hey guys. So, disregard my past goodbye. I found a way to restrict traffic for the people I don't want on my page
(Thank you, Computer Science degree.)
Let the poetry continue! :D
Steele Jan 2015
Confession: I have no idea how this whole challenge thing got started.
Whoever it is, I hope you like my contribution.
For your reference, I'm made of different things than when I first arrived.
Back then I was broken hearted,
writing retribution.
But just when I think I'm getting ready to move into the next chapter of my life,
The man I was before comes in and the recipe is ruined.

Ingredient the first is of course the man I was before.
I'll admit, he wasn't all that bright, and a bit of a know it all and a bore.
but according to every guide who helped him open newer doors,
"He has so much potential!" So let potential simmer for about a minute before you add in Life. But be honest for a second. Life's a cold, disdainful *****.

Ingredient number two was life, but it's far too large and full of emotion,
so grab your knife and cut a smaller portion,
mince, and mix it with a few one night stands.
Sprinkle in some daddy issues.
Add a dollop of fairy dust, and prepare to bring the tissues.
Next comes epilepsy, pill bottles to your eyeballs,
death, and loss, and missing parietals,
cheating, beatings, midnight meetings
with guys who will sell you memory loss for a few hundred bucks.
Caution: This recipe calls for zero *****.
Add them in at the risk of ruining the mix.
Let it simmer and boil with rage,
and eventually your mixture will break it's cage;
He'll run away, start over fresh somewhere, and lie about his life to all who ask,
then slowly, he'll open up to strangers over the internet, and bask
in the complements his poetry gets him.
Then he'll get a job like a real person,
and his cold dead heart will begin to tick,
like clockwork, which he'll be obsessed with,
and he'll start clocking people for money instead of kicks,
and be paid for it.
and get laid for it.
(because come on, why else do people become athletes? To get ripped.)
His life will, briefly, be a fairy tale,
and he'll believe for a moment that his old life has called it quits.
This is a crucial moment, don't **** up the recipe like I did
Because then...
if his old life finds him.
his runaway streak is over.
See, if it doesn't cook all the way through, food poisoning is in order,
and he is poisoned once again but that cruel *****, Life,
and his life becomes again a game of "Pick-up-sticks"
as his old life comes crashing back, and then, stage left, ENTER *****!
She finds him.
and before you know it too much Life was added to the mix,
he says "**** it" once again,
opens up for just a moment more,
***** up his rhymes, and moves out of his apartment,
packs his bags, says his goodbyes, and pays his rent,
then leaves to close more potential doors, lost and disillusioned.
Too much life came back too soon, before he was ready to be served.
Too much life was added in, and while you totally can say h'orderves
without saying "*****", life's a *****, so you add too much more,
and the recipe is ruined.
My life on a page. Bye guys. Time for me to disappear again for a while, and move on. It's been fun.

Addendum: Nevermind. :)
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