pink.
pink, he is clothed in petals
sweet-smelling cherry blossoms
lingering in the space where the sun touches the earth
at the horizon.
he lives in the sunset
his bare feet softly touching the ground
the bare ground
raw and fresh
wet soil and wet leaves and
wet petals sprinkled.
pink, she loves herself.
she wears long flowing dresses and braids her hair with
flowers.
she works hard
too hard, maybe
maybe she just wants to be seen.
pink, she is
loud and quiet and everything at once,
pink,
she is the world.
precipice
she walks on the edge of the water
longing to once again belong to its frigid depths
staring up that the sky that edges on darkness
a home of hers
one of many
she cries for reasons that are sad and not
drowning in the fabric of elaborate dresses and cloaks
hiding her face with crumpled hands
she is made of paper but she will last forever
she wants to be a butterly but relates more to a moth
fragile and dull
a heart of stone and a soul of glass
eyes clouded with visions
of places that are above and below
Red
Flames rise high
Red paints the horizon
Madness overwhelms the strokes
Flicking away at the sky
With crazed eyes bleeding crimson
With rage thinly veiled
The devil draws at the sky
Violently reveling in the thrill
His tongue lashes out, long and thin
Acid drips from his mouth lips upturned into a grin
Pale yellow teeth glisten in the heat
As the smell of charred meat
Wafts from his scaly skin
Wild fire burns in his eyes
Every inch of his body defiles
His days of disguise
Are over and all that lies before him
Is a torturous demise.
Onyx Black
She hides in the back of the class,
Long hair naturally dark as the night sky,
Black as the deep hours of midnight.
It's all she wears, too.
Black jeans, black shirt, black socks and boots.
Black earrings and onyx on a black string around her neck.
Occasionally, you'll catch her wearing grey,
But that's only when
She hasn't done laundry in three weeks
And her black clothing has run out.
She has a black cat
That lives in her apartment.
Her name is Onyx Black,
And she lives up to it,
A shining gemstone
As dark as her sad, wise eyes.
the colors of black
they pass her by
she's heard it a million times
they say
she's the absence of light
it's not true, it's not right
it’s a lie
they all live inside
of her
she keeps them
it gets overwhelming sometimes
but she would not dare
to let them out
to have people see
so she holds them
close to her heart
all her colors
they say
she's the absence of light
and as she doesn’t deny it
no one asks questions.
O R A N G E
Imagine that everyone constantly thinks about how little you fit in. My defining characteristic is my inability to match something; another word, that is. I am both admired and faulted for my name, my name that carries no resemblance to any other word, no matter how much it's twisted around. "Oh-range...homage?" Sigh.
I make people uncomfortable. My name's refusal to play twinsies with other terms in the vernacular notwithstanding, my appearance is bold. Loud. Of the brights, yellow gets a bit more attention. She's cheerful; she reminds people of the sun. Of butter and gold and optimism. Me, I'm yellow with a rebellious streak of red; I carry more of a threatening fire. And so I divide people; I'm one of those "love or hate" scenarios. For those who love me, I'm their fave. For those who don't, they would stack all the other colours over me.
Still, I don't mind, so much. Just because I notice this mixed reaction doesn't mean that I let it wound me. I appreciate what I am. I take pride in my versatility. I'm in the softness of nature, the most delicate petal or monarch's wing. I'm the crisp, daring exterior of my namesake fruit. I'm artistic as a sunset, shocking as a traffic cone. I'm on the surface of autumn leaves and in the wax of crayons. I understand that the reason some people dislike me is the same reason people like me: I don't look or sound like anything else. I'm a reminder to be unapologetically you.
#orange #writing #beyourself
The sea of red
On the path to the sea of red, all he sees is red as he remembers his friends telling him that the world is filled with secrets of all kinds; most of them are harmless and will only last a lifetime, but among them, there are those that are deadly, like his. They told him that his secret will be the beginning of the end and that if he wants to keep the world safe, then he has to walk the path to the sea of red.
The sea of red will take his secrets and bury them, the waves will wash memories and grant him forgiveness. Red will be free, in the sea of red. Free from the sins of those he’s served, free from his own sins of blood, his tainted hands that have drained the lives of many, many creatures.
Red’s secret is one of murder, an ancient order who lived to destroy; built upon death, was their belief. And his too, none in the order had a mind of their own. Their minds were in the hands of the puppet master and the puppet master lives in red. Red is the only immortal member of the order, the vessel of all that is doom.
The puppet master cannot live, but red cannot die, his body won’t allow it and so he must kill his memories, over and over again, he will kill his memories through the sea of red. The puppet master can only control those that know of the order and so he will forget… until the puppet master makes him remember, he who lives in the mind will always control it but he will not control the body until it remembers.
It’s a vicious cycle of lost and found, a battle of time. Red must hurry, it’s like a loading glitch, every time the memories are awakened, the puppet master has to wait a day before he can gain control, red has to forget again before then.
On the path to the sea of red, he hurries, without another thought, he hurries on, to the sea of red, to fall into its embrace as the sea lulls him to sleep, a sleep that will wash his memories.