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Steele Feb 2015
"Is the glass half full?" He asked,
She said "There's no water left,"
"Are you ever nervous going out?"
"Scared half to death."
"I have a six pack of abs."
"Do I look like I care?"
"What does a guy need to have?"
"A smile. A brain. Nice hair."
"How about we go back to my place?"
"How about we no?"
"You look like you'd be a freak in the sheets."
"I think I should go..."
"What's your favourite song?"
"Anything that fills my head."
"Will I see you again?"
"Honestly, I think I'd rather be dead."
Swipe left if not a human being.
Steele Feb 2015
I remember your face, so I'll write about your scars.
I remember your heart, so I'll scribble apart
broken lines about good times and our promises in the dark.
And I'll write about your scars.
The one that ran from your eye to your ear,
that I told you was beautiful, and I meant it.
The one that made it hard for you to see or hear,
how beautiful you were; That I really meant it.
I remember your eyes, both of them so deep and so brown.
You hated your eyes, and wished they were more light or more dark.
I remember your hair, on your head like a fiery red crown,
But I'll write about your scars, because that's what broke us apart.
And because, in the end, that's why I'm writing you down.
Steele Sep 2015
Vibrations in lilac
across a silver face.
That's the image of you
that I conjure and brew
in my cauldron. I waste
no imagination; It's Lilac.
Silver and vibration. Back
to the time when we were new
and untouched by the black brew
that I stir in my mind when I think of you.
But now, when I think of it...
The world's boiling over.
and I don't know what to do.
Ink
Steele Apr 2015
Ink
I'm tired, and this lonely night
has conspired to make me write.

I'll pour my heart in reds and blacks
upon the rug, and watch you sneer
at the mess I've made. And I'll hug
close the pen, as it cuts into my veins
and hacks a queer line upon the page,
until to sleep's embrace my mind will recede
relieving me of this earnest, bleeding need;

This lonely night demands I write,
but I fear I've not enough ink tonight to do the deed.
Goodnight, HelloPoetry.
Steele Jan 2015
My morning is simple; It always starts the same way.
Alarm, shower, brush teeth, eggs, repeat as many times more
as I need to repeat; 365, 24, 7, I can take it. Because at the end of the day,
I hit the sack, and then like clockwork; like a broken needle record on replay
Alarm, shower, brush teeth, eggs, and I'm out the door.

I work hard all day; when I'm not on the clock, I clock my punches at the gym.
I measure a punch-card for holes, or a punching bag for holds,
and I take pride in either; I forsake neither; I breathe in the aether
and breath out blood sweat and tears... but mostly sweat, truth be told.
My sweat is a constant, and I'll tell you; sometimes that gets old.

That's me though. I'm a fighter on the mat and in the cubicle. I write words so musical people say "That's beautiful," and it fills me with pride.
Words, fists, ink.
It doesn't matter; I give it my all every time and never stop to think
about the consequences it takes on my mind and my body; I don't blink
at the cracked knuckles bad punches provide.
at the cracked mirror that I look into after a bad review.
at the crack-*** asshats that talk down to me from their penthouse view.
at the minimum wage pockets full of pennies and dimes.

I don't blink; I don't think...
because if I did, I'd realize this is it. This is Hell.
But... I still wake up,
and put on my leather shell,
and then take it off when I hear the factory bell.
And I fall into bed with a smile on my lips;
Because one day life is going to be better than this.

The voice in the back; the one I don't listen to...
The cracks; the cynic's view, it screams "Life isn't fair! Life is just this!"
But I don't listen. I close my eyes and I make the American wish.
Life and liberty; with both I'm blessed.
But the second ones the one to bring a smile to these chapped lips.
Pursuit of happiness: Hell yes! I can get behind that wish...
So I'll Alarm, shower, brush teeth, eggs, as long as my clockwork heart ticks.
Because I trust in justice,
even if it's only injustice. **Even if life's only just this.
As I said. It's been a rough week. The only thing that exists is now, and right now, it's just this. Once more into the breach...
Steele Apr 2015
Lips of velvet pursed and mocking;
Eyes watching, flattered and bemused.
I've never felt so whole before,
just as I've never felt so wholly used.

Chocolate skin and silver lace,
Behind soft whispers, and pretty lies.
lines of worry mark her perfect face,
as she turns to face my knowing eyes.
                    I've never felt so whole before;
                    I wish I felt wholly more surprised
                        not by the fire in her stare;
                          by the red flowers in her hair;
                                but by the cologne scented letter
                                             on the floor with her sweater
                                                 she thinks I didn't see her hide...
Steele Jun 2015
Words are just words.
Though they move with a flow
to match the rivers of my soul.

Though they bend like my bow.
Though they showcase it all:
The love. The hurt.
They're just words.

Though they sing like my strings,
though they can be sung; they sing
hollow;

My strings and my bow
prove to me words are words.
Why then, do these phrases
showcase my soul?

My violin is my muse,
and I know it seems obtuse
to say that words are just words.
But I wish I could play for you all.

Then you'd see my soul
in crescendo...
                     Not simply this piece of the whole.
I'm not a poet, though I appreciate the praise.

I'm a violinist. I wish that I could show you all my music, so you could see that I am so much more than these words that you praise so much. I appreciate it, but I can't help but think I don't deserve it in light of the sounds that I ache to bring the world.
Steele Mar 2015
He waits beneath the scarlet sea.
His voice is thunder, whispered quietly.
His eyes are faith, felt in fear and wonder.
His grasp is the course of finality.

Wretched like gold tainted ****** and plundered
by evils that wear the faces of men like a veil.
Scaly and pale. Dark, mighty and frail.
With a voice soft as thunder, and eyes like the moon
that move the sea in tandem with black hearts that fail
to see; to dream; to outlive their doom.

He waits in solemn and sacred slumber,
solemn in knowing his sacred duty to be.
Black eyes judge without remorse.
Cold scales clatter in ringing course,
echoing through wet depths of eternity.

Softly, his voice reaches out through the fade.
He beckons the faithless in cruel duality.
They abandon false idols of Gold and Jade.
They reach for his shimmering promised wonder
and he takes their outstretched hand...

As his tendrils drag the doomed souls under,
black eyes shed no tears for the filthy and ******.

"Such is His word." He whispers, in a voice old and rough like sand.
Softly, he shivers, and the waters ripple unmanned.
"Sinners..." He whispers,

"Won't you come take my hand?"
There is an old story, from the Golden Age of Piracy. Many ship logs tell of a voice, beckoning the dogs of the sea step into the waters, and meet their maker at last. Many men listened to that voice, and Leviathan feasted well on each occasion.
Steele Mar 2015
I grew up moon shining past glowing street lights
and I was invited to an underground ring by a man called Life.
I met him in the ring in the middle of the night;
I threw down my gloves for ill advised street fights.
He threw down grimaces, and spit disguised as tears.
Blood rushed through ringing ears,
Blood rushed into my head, suddenly hazy with fear
and then, suddenly, blood rushed out of punctured sides.
High on adulation, I brought boxing gloves, respectful nods, handshakes, and cheers.
Life brought me low with sucker punches, broken laws, and sharp rusty knives.
Steele Feb 2015
You and I,
We got high
together at the seven eleven at seventeen,
and listened to Fall Out Boy as he sang ironic one liners.
And we'd argue about what it would mean; too high to believe
the other was right, and then laughed at passing cars.

We stumbled to the graveyard and told ghost stories with wine,
and whiled away the hours dreaming of knights and dragons
in crystal towers far away across fable and time. I'd lift my proverbial flagon,
and you'd ****** it away, and whisper
"What am I
to you?" So sudden, and I was too high to answer it right at the time.
I stumbled. I mumbled. My words were all jumbled, and all that came out was:
"Thou art mine friend." Kind of lame, that word at the end. But I ended the sentence
With a laugh. I didn't know you were serious...
But...
I should have cut a word from the statement. Because if I was being serious too,
I'd have whispered back "Thou art mine."

In my mind, I relive the moment over again and again,
before you left and stumbled off into the dark,
I say "You are my princess, I'm your knight."
I say "When it's all ****** up, you make it all right."
I say all the right things and it culminates in a kiss by starlight,
but I mumbled,
words jumbled,
And you took the bottle of wine with you as you stumbled
alone into the dark till it took you away from my sight.

That night I sat alone and soliloquised what I didn't say right.
Steele Apr 2015
Enshrouded in mist,
far flung shores requite nothing.
Lonely eyes watch hushed.
Steele Jan 2015
On your pilgrimage to Earth, you learnt of cruelty and of man.
They ripped your wings from out your back, and left you in the dirt.
Now you try to dull the hurt, but jealous of beauty, they come again.
You try to sing but voices crack, in time with hearts that house their hurt.

On my pilgrimage from Hell, I learn of love and its mistakes.
I saw their abuse, and I attacked;
thought my rage could shield you from your pain.
and I learnt far more of pain coming back
than Hell could ever teach; I learnt of love in vain.

Though I meant to save you, I merely left you afraid
of the violence I used to deliver you from their wretched grasp.
I knew near at once the price I'd paid
when those blue eyes gave tears; when those red lips gasped
at the monster whose face by horns was framed.
I broke your heart when I broke their backs;
You heard only my roar when I whispered your name.

I longed to be the chorus in your Angelic song,
                                                    or even a single, lovely note.
Not this phantom dissonance in your sad refrain....
                                                    T­his lonely shadow in the smoke.
Steele Jan 2015
She bared my heart, that I did not know I owned,
and led me to the light. To redemption? Back to Hell?
To some in between twilight...

He saved my life, but ****** my soul,
confusing me my way. To Love?! To Hate?!
To find a hole and hide away...


I scream her name...
But I am alone, and only unrepentant ghosts can hear.

He can never know...
That much- Thank God- I know that much is clear.


I cry, and Demons are not moved;
To them, seeing a man in pain- even their king- is a sight not so queer.

I cry, and Angels do not care;
The only waters shed in heaven are joyful, pious tears.


When I left, my soul came again unlatched;
and my heart closed, left again to cruelty's treason.

When I returned, my wings were intact;
but my heart burned for the reason.


Though you thought I hid
my face from shame;
All the rage and pain... for you? All I did,
I would do it all again.

When you left, to my shame,
my heart followed you to Hell.
Though you wear such rage and pain...
I confess you wear it well.


But he can never know my shame
But you do not care to hear my pain.
I realize it needs some heavy edits, but I'm shelving it for now in favour of just finishing the trio of poems. I'll get back to it. Haha.
Steele Jul 2014
The rain fell hard, spitting
on the hallowed granite wall.
It fell on her too, sitting
in her fatal fetal sprawl.

Her coat was torn, and her head hung low;
the rain stung her knees and eyes.
“What a surprise…” she whispered, slow
in her speech and ashen in her guise.

“I didn’t think I’d find your name…”
Her voice broke, though none can know
whether from pride or from shame.
“I guess you listened, when they told you to go.”

“You idiot! When you’re done, find
me. That’s what I said to-”
Another break; her throat constricted.
She barely breathed, “Why me? Why you?”

“I’m sorry,” she whispers.
“They sent you, but it’s all my fault.”
The rain reaches her lips, then,
yet those drops taste of salt.
Steele May 2015
Grey is the color of my eyes.
They stare past meadows and glades,
probing the blues and reds of sunset skies
to find black stone, dead and alone
where this vibrant life, may atone
and die.

I tire of these sensational tales;
these tear jerking moments of love and loss.
There are no tears left to pour from this grail
of dead wood. There are no more coins to toss
into this well of souls; tired and alone;
dead and lost.

In that well;
In those eyes;
Grey reigns king over fickle trust.
In this naked temple, on knees so tired.
I pray for an end to love and lust.
In this heart of frozen steel and wire,
I beg you. Let me rust.
Steele Sep 2014
I miss the taste of alcohol mixed with your sweat,
and the feel of your skin on mine as we first touched.
I can't bring myself to mourn the day we first met;
I can't bring myself to forget the way your skin blushed.

Our bodies were like puzzle pieces that badly entwined;
we didn't quite fit unless we forced it, and then the picture was wrong.
Still there was a beauty in the mistakes born of whisky and rhyme.
When we called it quits... There was regret when we both said goodbye.
There was regret when I went to your bed to give "us" one more try.
There was rage when I found that you weren't alone.
It's how I cope. Sue me.
Steele Sep 2015
Worn converses scuff the floor.
     The crowd sings, and they roar
     his name. Things aren't the same
     like anonymous Mondays before.

He pulls out his strings. Silence.
Steel vibrates and sings; Violence
erupts and again he hears his name.
It isn't the same... but he finds it
strangely fitting; On this stage
he's the benefactor and the tyrant.
He's the laughter, killing quiet.
It's not your average Monday
but no surprise, he finds he likes it.
Steele Jun 2015
When my Juliet calls, and my soul is weary.
I briefly fold, and long to follow that path I can't attempt.
Sweet dagger, pierce my heart, and let our embrace shake the stars,
But the will to live wins over a world without a Capulet

It's the hardest decision that I'm never going to get,
because the path of least resistance is
the path I can't accept.
It's because my life is never ready.
The poison's on her lips already.
Hands are shaking, Blade is steady.
Sweet dagger, pierce my heart,
and gift to me this path of sweet regret.

      Romeo is cold and weary,
     Oblivion is singing cheery
                 Songs for
            what he longs for
             and the night;
             and the blade
              shines alight
with blood so cold and wet.
Steele Nov 2014
Whisper fierce and hungry, say you'll forever stay my angry muse.
Bite my lip and and scream my name, make your voice my claim to fame.
He offered you such cruel disdain, so come to me. I'll ease the pain.
Shower me with your abuse. A broken heart's a good excuse.

He caged your beast, now set it loose.
Forget the past, what's left to miss?
Take me with you; Let us fuse; rest his name in your tattoos.
Shower me with your abuse. Say you'll stay my angry muse.
Rebound with me in one night's bliss;
His heart is something you can't have,
but my body's here for you to use.
What are friends for?
Steele Mar 2015
Were every night as tonight feels now,
with you by my side, with your laughter echoing mine...
Were you captain of my ship, there'd be no need to hide
my face in the shadow of the masthead's lonely brow.
No need for cigarettes in the dark.
No concealing my haunted heart
behind smiles that tonight are honest as a vow.
Not false like in the light tomorrow will allow.

The morning brings tears that tonight are absent from my soul.
For at least tonight, there is no fear.
For at least tonight I feel whole,
and tomorrow I know will not feel the same.

And
       yet
             still...

Were every night as carefree and untired,
with dinner in the cabin, brothers sharing stories by the fire.
Waves lap at the barnacles; crest at the bow.
No need to hide my face from their spray in my shame;
No need for me to confess every sin by my name
Were every night as tonight feels now.
Were it that tomorrow would bring me the same.
I wish every night were as honest.
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 Nov 2015
I should write you November,
and I swear I tried, but our lives
aren't fair, and this time love isn't sweet.
The leaves have stopped their tumbling dives
through infinity. The wind won't remember
a time when I moved sound so complete
that it shattered time. (When you first became mine.)
I knew it was stupid as soon as I uttered that line.
I swear I tried to write you November,
But my words can't compete
with these Autumn lovers,
and these passionate crimes...
November is done. See you next month.
Steele Oct 2015
I should write you October
and I swear I tried, but pens
aren't ribbons, and this time ink isn't red.
The autumn wind whips through the fens.
The chorus line is silent and sober.
The lead singer was found dead
under the bridge. (Haha get it?)
I knew it was stupid soon as I said it.
I swear I tried to write you October
but my heart heavy head
is full of Autumn clovers
and fickle friends.
Think I'll write one of these every month. We'll see.
Steele Feb 2015
I feel bad for women who date online.
There are good men in this world, I swear.
Not every man who walks the earth wastes his breath and your time,
with cro-magnon scribbles from a mind so bare,
that it comes as a surprise they managed even to write one line,
much less something so cerebral as this:
                              "Yo, prety gurl. Liek yur pic,
                                I so >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
                               Wanna see mah ****?"

So deep, right? What Socratic genius might have penned such lines?
Surely not even Shakespeare or Keats could craft words so divine!
I am so sorry, women who date online.
Truly, I'm sorry, on behalf of mankind
Steele Apr 2015
Love is not a symphony
to be played and danced along.
Not a musical soliloquy,
and not even, at times, a song.

My heart is not your violin,
to play whenever the mood is right.
There are no symphonies within me;
This silent soul's voice is stoppered tight.

Words are all I have to offer;
No songs beg release tonight.
I don't feel like playing tonight. Go away.
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
Out
Steele Jun 2015
Out
There's a light inside your mind.
It's time to coalesce, don't hide
that fire burning bright and fierce.
That spark's what makes you real; alive.

Rainbow banners on metal poles
tall and proud; They stand strong and stout.
It's far past time for ashen cold.
It's time those rays come roaring out.

Look into the light and decide.
"Now's the time to come alive."
Burn within and blaze without.
The Phoenix sings when it comes out.
It's a song of victory and pride.

It's okay. You're allowed to fear- to doubt-
but just remember when you're standing out:

I'm standing right there by your side.
Steele Sep 2015
Sweet dagger, pierce that midnight beauty,
that walks like cloudless climes and starry skies.
Go now, men, and do your duty.
Steal the schemes of other rhymes.

I am the captain of my ship; I am the master of metre and time.
I've mastered the art of thieving wit.
I've stolen the fame of men long dead
and staked my claim to the fruits of their minds.
I can write words yet unsaid;
But I've not the mind;
I've not the inclination;
I've not the creativity
to write my own lines.

If this rings too close to home,
perhaps you ought to write your own.
More likely though,
you'll just steal mine.
Found one of my poems on another poetry web site today.
This is why sharing my poetry is hard. Some **** is just going to try to use it to get known. Joke's on you, random dude. With a word, I could make you famous.

You sure you want that?
Steele Feb 2015
My ears are stopped with tapers, so I'll hear no more
of this ****** farce you and he have going.
Every time you ask for more
abuse, I realize I'm better off not knowing.
But my playlist is full of sadness,
and the rest is a bore.
So your screams are my melody
and I'll listen as your blood keeps on flowing.

They say fools rush in, and more the fool you.
More the fool me too, to listen to
your pained cries for more pain,
as your skin is red glowing,
The bruise slowly growing,
as you exult in the sick high you get from his backhand;
as I listen to Red Jumpsuit Apparatus ask him
if he feels like a man.

There's no pain more complete tonight
Than the ringing in my tear soaked budded ears
when he says "**** my ****, *****"
with those lips so sweet... "and tight."
And you oblige, because you're too used to it to fear,
and it makes you feel beautiful,
because only angels weep, right?

That's the sad lesson heard here.
I bid my sad playlist goodnight.
Steele Jan 2015
There's a catch in my breath like
the catch in your step from
the wound. "Where'd you get it?" I
asked you when I was five.

There's a hole in my chest like
the hole in your leg from
the wound. "It was a gift." I
didn't understand when you said it. I was five.

There's cold marble planted in the grass like
the countertops you bought from
Ikea. "Not really what it says on the box, is it?" you said. I
understand now. I was five,
but now at twenty I understand
the wound. And the box. And the gift.
The one I didn't appreciate nearly enough when I was five.

"Ain't it the way!" Your catchphrase, engraved. Delivered with a grin.
It would read so much better coming from your lips.
Those lips, on that contented smile, on that face,
in that box, now cold like that granite it's closed now within.
I miss you, Pop.
Steele Apr 2015
Do, re, tiring **me.
Fa, So, Latte sounds good.
A sale on tea?
Do ti la "So, how are your scales going?"
My teacher calls; he wants to know.

"FAr from REady." I admit.
I tried to practice steady,
but starbucks had a sale today, so I quit.

"You'll never make the grade like that;
Devote every hour" He says with a glower.
"Go practice your bow. Coffee can wait."
He's right of course, but I still take the bait.

How's a coffee-enthusiast like me
expected to practice enthusiastically?
What's a violinist without caffeine to keep his lights turned to "go"?
When Starbucks conspires to take all my hard earned DOugh?
The struggle, man.
Steele Feb 2015
"Forgive me, Lord, for I have sinned."
I whisper to the empty halls by holy candle's light.
The stones of the church are cold on my bare knees,
like my bare heart, bared before you: My brother. My knight.
My Lord to Shepard me in the darkness. "Guide me from the night..
Hallowed be thy name, forgive me my transgressions in your sight.
"
I whisper again, and beg for my trespasses retribution or salvation;
I've stopped caring which came my way long ago, though I'm contrite.

"You see... Lord... I've failed in many ways. I'm not the brother or son
that I need to be. I've lost my path, if not my faith, and my only consolation
now are my tears, my cigarettes, and my shattered heart's remaining love.
Forgive me for the harm I've done, though I know my prayers are not enough.
I know I don't deserve it, but by grace of God above,
I hope to be a better man, instead of this drawn out sin my life's become...
"

And by the altar, I cry.
And my bare knees and bared heart are by this time cold,
frozen by uncaring flagstones, and by your love that you withhold.
Sinners go to Hell below, that's what Sister Mary told
me when I was young and full of light,
and innocent and oh so bold,
and when in my heart I didn't have so much fright,
and such a raging fire that burns so cold,
in sadness and felicity from the grasp of the Devil in my soul.

But for all my faith, and for all your love,
I'm still going to rage
and spit
and claw
and fight,
even when I know that my side's not near in the right,
and even when my heart is stained and uncontrolled,
So I kiss the cross and wish my hopes for a better life goodnight.
"Thanks for listening, Jesus." I whisper, but in my sinner's heart so cold,
I wonder... Can he hear me? Or am I, as I feel it now, alone?
I'm losing my faith, and I'm not sure what else there is to get me through once it's finally gone. If anyone is out there, I need a kind word. That's my prayer tonight.
Steele Mar 2015
My tie is formal; the coat's leather dark.
Face rugged; unshaven, eyes twinkling bright.
Perfect features form a question mark:
Would you care, perhaps, to stay the night?

If you told me no, you'd not be the first,
but I doubt you'd regret it over much
if you used my body to sate your thirst.
Just leave the money on the dresser, if that's your intent.
It's free to look, but it costs to touch;
Even pretty boys have to pay the rent.
Steele Oct 2014
Te gustaria acostarte a mi lado, y quedate la noche, tal vez?
Como amigos, y nada mas, obviamente.
Mi corazon es mi propio, pero...
puedo prestartelo por una noche, si lo deceas.

Quieres acostarte a mi lado?
Me gustaria mas de lo que puedas saber...
Puedo prestarte mis labios, y yo reciprocaria.
Nuestros latiodos sincronizados, y nuestras pieles relucientes.
Tu me bésarias apasionadamente,

Y quedate la noche, tal vez?
Como amigos, y nada mas, obviamente...
My Spanish is ****, so some of this may be a little bit off, but I gave it my best attempt. Feel free to correct me.

It is supposed to say:
Would you like to lie down beside me, and stay the night, perhaps?
As friends, and nothing more, obviously.
My heart is my own, but...
you may borrow it for the night, if you wish.

Would you like to lie down beside me?
I would like it more than you could know...
You could borrow my lips, and I'd reciprocate,
our heartbeats synchronizing and our skin glistening.
You would kiss me passionately,

and maybe stay the night, perhaps?
As friends, and nothing more, obviously...
Steele Sep 2015
Never been there.
Can't talk about it much.
I've seen shadows on the wall.
Crying faces in my dorm hall.
I've seen reflections of friends
in the communal toilet while they Puke-TSD.
Can't talk about it much.
It's not a subject I like to touch.
Never been there.
Never talking like I've seen it all.
They have. Ask them what it's like to fall
down and check your face for scrapes
and have other people put band-aids
on your ***. ("Oops, my mistake!")
Or better yet, don't.
Don't ask me.
Don't ask them.
They can talk.
I've never been.

If they ask, you can answer with the voice of a friend.
But don't ask. Don't reopen the PTSDen
of pain and the past. Just listen if they ask.
Have some ******* courtesy till then.
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. :)
Steele Apr 2015
Ringed fingers run across sculpted chests,
and they don their red stained lipstick vests.
"Roxanne" plays in the background,
and it feels like raindrops falling down,
because my eyes are cold, and blue, and wet.

Misty eyes and tired smoke
breathe deep through aching, weary lungs.
We cry in alleyways and choke
on strange bedfellows with probing tongues.
My heart is filled with tear stained jokes.
My jeans are filled with crumbled ones.
Steele Sep 2015
Times are tough. Just a puff. One moment of despair.
Just a hair on a razor's edge. Just one step off heaven's ledge;
I'll dangle, before my wings
smoke
and fall from my back.
Just a puff.
Wings are for saps.

("And it's done," he whispers. "Too late to turn back.")
One failure is unconscionable to the voice in my ear.
There's time yet for that.
There's time yet for that.
My mantra reminds me of that will that I lack.
Tomorrow is a new day. Try, try again.
Steele Jan 2015
I take a deep breath in, full of nicotine and safety blankets.
I know it's killing me slowly, but the relief comes fast.
And like the laughter of family at a Christmas banquet,
or the sound of my song on the radio as I drive to work,
it's just that little extra shove; that tiny smirk;
I don't need to feed the habit; I don't need it to last.

So, if you see me hugging my ethereal comfort food to my lips,
Don't condescend to give me ****
for the puff that I take, for the way that I self medicate.
It's a moment's release from a lifetime of hates.
I take a deep breath in, full of nicotine and safety blankets,
and briefly the pain, like the smoke, dissipates.
If you can help it, don't take up smoking. It's a dark habit.
If you can't, I'll be the first to offer you a light. Because I understand.
So, don't tell me what I'm doing to myself. I'm fully aware.
Just say "I understand." and we'll both smile and leave it there.
Steele Dec 2014
I'm not "Religious".
I believe in sin (Wink wink- If you know what I mean)
but I don't believe in religion when it cajoles or demeans.
Yet there is a ray of light in the windows of my dreams.
And it calls to me in a voice at once radiant and dim.

I call it the universe, but were I Religious, I'd call it "Him".

I am not loud, nor do I preach.
I believe in soft voices, and hymns sung only in one's head.
I believe in the reach of silence, broad and inky and welcoming.
I believe in my own inner thoughts and their peace (and too, their dread)
Yet there is a voice that tells me, in words softly said
that sometimes only the loudest sermons truly can teach.

I am non-religious, and I have been for a while.
I believe in dulcet whispers, and the sweet touch of sin.
I believe in Metal Music, and the musical devil within.
Then why, whenever I see someone capitalize "Him"
does my mouth turn up at the corners,
and grant me an unasked, yet welcome smile?
The only place I ever find God is in songs by The Fray where he hangs out at corner bars like a cool person. Still, sometimes.... I dunno.
Steele Apr 2015
Sitting by the your side, it feels like we're meeting for the first time
all over again, our feet swinging over the edge of the dock...
I catch my breath. I never knew how this could feel.

Eyes open wide, as if I'm seeing for the first time.
Making love within our small talk,
everything seems at once so present and surreal.

Hearts swaying with the tide, as if they're beating for the first time,
I never knew that it could feel like this.
It's like the sky and the sea are merging; fading away behind your eyes,
and slowly, on the dock, we tilt our heads
reaching for what feels like our first kiss.
Steele Dec 2014
For my morning run, it rains again.
I run into town every morning anyway.
Some day they'll be flooding, I think, when
the rain realizes it won't stop my foray.
Oddly, no one in this town would blame me then.
I think that's what keeps me on my merry way.

It's hard to step out of my sunny shell, and let the rain soak my hide.
Yet I'll keep smiling when it rains; that means once again I made it outside.
Introverts gonna introvert, yo. #dealwithit
Steele Aug 2014
He stares out into the darkness and the surf, waiting
     on a rocky chair molded from the side of the cliff... just waiting.
          His feet swing back and forth over the expanse, creating
          small showers of pebbles as they fall careening against the ledge.
     Theirs is the only motion to be seen, yet he does not look down, but out.
His eyes don't blink, and his lip is stiff, and his heart does not pound, but whispers a soft staccato beat into his veins, numbing his senses to the cold.
A ship appears on the horizon, and its gull white sails stand sharp
against the contrast of the night blackened sky, and in that moment
               his heartbeat stops...
                                                   but only for a moment;
                           for just that one moment.
Then in anguish it resumes, and its desolate beat plays on.
The sails are white, but they bear no red cross marker.
Flags of the wrong shade fly atop the mast, and the sky grows darker
as his feet swing against the cliffside, and his heart whispers consolation;
His heart beats desolation as he waits for another ship to come to harbor.
Steele Feb 2015
What pain it is to live and die;
to close mortal lives with mortal ends.
Recycled lives mimic their predecessors ennui,
and in the end, no one truly struggles; there is no dying cry;
Life leaves at the speed of wind; in a mundane sigh.

And then he brings with him the gentle kiss;
and that sigh passes in reverse across those lips
and extraordinary in her sin,
the ordinary breathes again.

And what blasphemy it is to breathe again
and again that final martyr's breath.
Recycled through lungs that do not open,
seeing with eyes that do not close, though wept
in tears of delicious blood and ***** unearned sweat.

She cries those tears of blood, and they fall to her mouth.
And she screams, but no sound can be heard coming out.
And she writhes, and he holds her in his arms with such tender love.
And she lives her stolen life in a dance macabre and barren of
that ordinarity; that beautiful mundane comfort that brought her such redoubt.

And he holds her, sharing in her pain and loss.
He knows the worth of a life long past its expiration date.
But he cannot condone himself to suffer alone on his lonely cross,
so he kisses her again, sharing that martyr'd gift, hoping his hunger will sate.
But it never is.

So they continue their dance, and give all they can give.
And they share in their duality; the finality of their lonely breath.
He aches for the piety of a life unlived;
She weeps for a visit from an angel of death.
Steele Apr 2015
Satan plays the violin; the same shape and tone as mine.
The devil passes time in Hell by playing fiddle,
and if I had to guess; I think that's the reason why
he knows the answer to life's riddle,
because its trilling's the only feeling filling
enough to get away with that beautiful lie.
It drowns the screams of the ****** that died;
                                                                ­          and briefly
                                                         ­                     tells us we are still alive.
Steele Dec 2015
Blood drops and rosy petals are,
As are Sunsets and summer skies.
Too, your lipstick and my beating heart,
Two blushing faces,
Two crying eyes.

Your long coat and wavy hair are,
As is winter's warm demise.
Too, by firesides which warm weary hearts,
I see that color graces
Too our breathless sighs.

Two shades of the same longing.
Two heartbeats: yours and mine.
Steele Mar 2015
To describe her hair is to scratch markings in sand,
only to watch grains shift and fade like words that I lack.
Raven's too dark, Midnight not true to her soul.
I refuse to settle for simply black.

To put in words the tilt of her chin,
to lay claim to her eyes' swirling blues and greens
is impossible. Better again sand meet my pen
than her face be sullied by the barest degrees.

I'd tell you of diamonds and midnight to compare her beauty,
and then think better of her- less of my words- and take it all back.
I refuse to sully her by barest degrees;
I refuse to settle for simply black.
Steele Jul 2014
In verses clear and so sublime,
A man once said of what is right
Of his mistress of dark and piercing eyes,
"She walks in Beauty, like the night"
Yet for the splendor of her face,
And all the virtues he may surmise,
I see in her no saving Grace,
No Virtue cool or clear or wise
For behind a lover's back a dagger hides
Gleaming, waiting, cold and bright
And so the sane man shuns his prize
"She walks in Shadow, like the night."
An answering poem to Lord Byron's "She Walks in Beauty" since speaking in all honesty, it's pretty much one giant line of ******* after another.
(Yes, I know he's dead).
Steele Jun 2015
She watches them together,
as her breath stops with a catch,
and her heart aches, pulled by tethers
made of love and lonely sadness.

He laughs. Briefly she can't help
but think that they'd be better.
She watches by herself,
and slowly drives herself to madness.
It's strange, the little things that can make her cry.
Steele Apr 2015
I caught her singing "Clair de Lune"
when she thought my gaze had wandered to
the girl from the bar, in the red dress and blue shoes
who snag happier, more uplifting tunes;
not that sad, quiet beauty by the light of the moon.

I caught her sighing, pining for release
from the pain of what she was feeling then
Her heart filled her lungs, and she sang out again
that lonely, impossible masterpiece;
that showcase of her heart's discontent.

I wept; should have come from my hidden den
but instead I watched, silent tears blurring my sight.
Though I should by rights have swept her into my arms,
I watched as she sang "Clair De Lune" long into that lonely night,
unsure if my presence would bring to her face a smile... or alarm.

The first, if I could but for a moment see, I'd trade away my immortal soul.
The second, rather than let it be, I would happily die,
                                                                                     silent and alone.
It's hard to know when your words will heal, or only make it worse. Sometimes my silence is mere necessity, and for that I am so sorry.
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