Capitalisation.

This overly-pretentious text, lacking in meaning, was the very first poem I ever wrote, back before I realised exactly how terrible at writing poetry I was and, indeed, still am. I wrote it for my girlfriend, but she never got to see it, because I replaced it with a few standard, unimaginative sonnets, like some modern-day Lothario, lacking in originality or in creativity.

Upon’st a place before we knew,
There it thrived,
a tale I know,
For it leapt and it crawled

through the remnants of our time,
I fear to say know it well,
I fear it, for this tale is thine.

There was an Angel there, lacking in Her holiness
Differing from Her brown,
not blonding,
hair,
As such She was thought to be,
Such was She thought to be,
by me.

For She would perform as we asked, Going so far
as to forgive the tear,
Of Her sensibilities,
Her parody of a heart,
By a fool, one who knew
not what art,

That She kept
Hidden, within Her breast,
Hidden, behind Her beating chest.

Beauty, an over-used word,
Thrown at any beast, plant, bird,

But I know,
for a fact,
She possessed this grace,
Its horsetail brush, flickering
across Her face,
Every time She frowned,
or Smiled,
or Wept,
And at such a sight,
every boy save me
away was swept.

Some, influenced by this muse,
And though their lack of talent made them lose,
placed pen to paper in Her name,
And secreted these words within their shame.

One,
amongst this trove of admirers,
A fool, knowing She was far above his desires, has
but a single message for Her to receive,
And he prays to himself She

will not be deceived. By the others
who claim to love Her so,
But few can claim to know Her whole,
to worship the sight of this quasi-angelic being,
when without Her shields
they come a-seeing.

When Her face-paint has run,
from wind or from rain,
And Her lips are smeared
across Her face
in an unholy stain,
And Her hair lies lank against Her eyes, And She spouts her truths which,
to him,
are lies.

For even when curled in Her stony silence,
Medusa’s pupils in the mirror,
Or roaring at him in a hopefully feigned violence,
The Minatour in her expression
He gazes with an admiration,
one most grand,
Even as She curls her hands, Into fists of legitimate fury,
Each nail a reluctantly eager member of the loathing jury,
Which break so often he wonders,
with his lips closed tightly, why She even bothers,
at all and why –
– Why she even gives a shit?

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